Shattered Chandeliers: Unspoken Secrets
by Jordan A. Masters
Summary: More than a century after his exile from Paris, can the Phantom try one last time to find happiness...especially when it is the sole chance for him to be free? ExOC modern
1. Deathbed Confession

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – This story is the property of Jordan A. Masters and may not be reproduced in any way, shape, or form without express written permission of Jordan A. Masters, which can be obtained through email. It has not been posted for gain or profit. Most of the characters in this story have been specifically crafted for use within this story. Some of the characters have been borrowed from Andrew Lloyd Webber's play and movie, _The Phantom of the Opera_, and others have been borrowed from Frederick Forsyth's book, _The Phantom of Manhattan_, and I do not own these borrowed characters. Also, some lyrics have been borrowed from Webber's play, with slight modifications – I do _not_ own these lyrics, even though I have modified them.

**

* * *

The Deathbed Confession of Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny**

As recorded by Étienne Chagny, 17 April 1917

They have told me I am dying, and though I feel nothing, they are right. This is not my first taste of death – my first bite came with my marriage to Raoul. No use searching for the priest, Étienne – he has already come to hear my confession. But there is one sin in my life I have never confessed to any priest. For this most grievous error in my life, I do not want forgiveness. It is time for me to tell the story of the sixteen-year-old diva, and the men she loved. Record this all, my son – every word will help you and your line to better understand me when I am gone.

I was orphaned at the age of seven, when my father, Gustave Daaé, died. On his death, Madame Antoinette Giry took me to study ballet at the Opera Populaire. She was very good to me, and after a little more than a year, I began to see her as a mother – and she often said she considered me a daughter. Had my lack of a father been the extent of my problems, I would probably have had a very different life.

But every night, in the small chapel where I prayed for my father, a voice spoke to me, and called itself the Angel of Music. Being only seven, and very naïve, I believed that it was the Angel of Music my father had promised to send me from Heaven. He tutored me to sing in the opera we performed – but of course, I was only seven and not yet old enough to be in the ballet chorus, let alone actually sing the lead. That was up to Carlotta Giudicelli, then only a 28-year-old diva, and her voice still pleasing to the ears.

When I turned fourteen, I was allowed to join the stage ballet chorus, as was Meg, Madame Giry's daughter and my best friend. Meg and I were as close as sisters – we hardly ever went anywhere without one another. We were elated to finally be in the ballet chorus, finally doing something together onstage, ready for the Parisian opera audience's watchful eye.

But the real trouble began when I was sixteen. The owner and manager of the Opera Populaire, Monsieur David Lefèvre, had sold the opera house to two gentlemen who had made a living in the scrap-metal business – Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles André. Until their first day, the entity we used to call the Opera Ghost had been extremely quiet. However, these new managers made the dreadful error of asking Carlotta to sing for them.

Our production at the time was to be 'Hannibal' by Chalumeau. Carlotta was then only 37, but her voice was now well past its prime. The Opera Ghost had been wreaking havoc on Carlotta for three straight years, though in recent months it had been minor things: missing shoes, dresses, even a girdle – a wig catching fire on her head – a trapdoor in the stage opening under her – and three of her costumes found destroyed the opening night of her operas.

But when she opened her mouth to sing, the sound was such that I wanted to deafen myself before she could. However, fortune spared us. As she reached a high note, her concentration shattered as a backdrop came crashing down from the flies – right upon her frail body, pinning her to the stage. Monsieur Lefèvre was ready to blame it all on the chief of the flies, Joseph Buquet. But Buquet claimed that he had not been there when the backdrop fell.

Carlotta was furious at this most recent attack, and she stormed out, along with Ubaldo Piangi, our leading tenor. While Piangi had an understudy for the role of Hannibal, Carlotta's exit had left the role of Elissa open. She had no understudy.

Madame Giry suddenly spoke out that I could sing the role. The new managers graciously allowed me an informal audition of Elissa's aria in Act Three. They were very impressed with me, and I was given the role of Elissa.

Raoul came to my dressing room after the performance that night. He wished to take me to supper, and obviously did not hear me when I declined the offer.

After Raoul left, a voice spoke to me from behind the mirror. He called himself my Angel of Music – the angel my father had promised to send to me from Heaven. I should have known better at the time, but I was naïve – in reality, this voice belonged to our Opera Ghost. But I believed he was the Angel of Music, and so I allowed him to take me to the basements of the Opera Populaire.

While I was with him, I grew curious, and I somehow found the courage to remove his mask. I saw his full face – if one could truly call it a face. The right side looked as though someone had poured acid on it – the skin was red raw and puckered badly. He screamed at me, cursing me and saying he would never release me. But I pitied him, and I returned the mask to him – and he let me go.

It only got worse from then on. Carlotta was to play the role of the Countess in 'Il Muto.' This was against the demands of the Opera Ghost, and in repayment, he caused Carlotta to croak like a toad onstage, allowing me the opening I needed to take over Carlotta's role. But before I could take the stage, the garrotted body of Joseph Buquet fell to the stage in the midst of the ballerinas, and causing Raoul and I to flee to the roof to escape the eyes of the Opera Ghost. Here, Raoul told me that he loved me…and I told him that I loved him.

Three months later, at our masquerade ball, Raoul proposed to me. I accepted, but knew that I must keep it a secret or risk the rage of the Opera Ghost.

But he (the Opera Ghost) showed at the masquerade ball. Though my engagement ring was on a chain around my neck, he still managed to find it and rip it from my throat. After that, he dropped through a trap door in the center of the stairs – and Raoul jumped in after him, sword drawn. I screamed for him not to go, but in his haste to kill the Opera Ghost, he must not have heard me. And though I knew he would be all right, I did not see him again that night.

The Opera Ghost had left something behind for the managers: an opera that he had written himself, called _Don Juan Triumphant_. In his instructions to the managers, he demanded that Piangi play the role of Don Juan – and I was to play the role of the heroine, Aminta. I desperately did not want this role, this responsibility. But neither Raoul nor the managers would listen to my pleas – I must play the role of Aminta so that they could capture the Opera Ghost.

Ah, to have it be so easy!

Every time Piangi and I practiced the final scene, I could feel the Opera Ghost's rage. The Opera Ghost loved me, as I had known ever since he had taken me to his basement lair. For Piangi to be that close to me was unbearable to him.

The Opera Ghost did attend the opening of his opera, but he did not watch from Box Five as he often did. When it came time for Don Juan and Aminta's duet, he replaced Piangi onstage, having killed the tenor backstage. We finished the song, but not the opera, together – the police had been summoned to capture the Opera Ghost, and he avoided them by cutting down the chandelier and setting the theatre ablaze. But he kidnapped me from the stage as well, taking me down to the basements once again, and there he told me that I would be forced to stay with him for eternity.

Just as he told me this, Raoul showed up to rescue me. But the Opera Ghost was ready for my Raoul – the moment Raoul entered the Opera Ghost's lair, he nearly fell victim to the Punjab Lasso, the weapon of choice of the Opera Ghost. I was to choose between the two men. I chose Raoul, and the Opera Ghost knew I would, but I still kissed the Opera Ghost to make him let Raoul go. He was a murderer, and I would never have chosen him. Raoul and I left the Opera Ghost's lair, and we were married.

We never saw the Opera Ghost again. Meg Giry came to see me, many months later, to tell me that he had died shortly after the Opera Populaire burned to the ground. The police never caught him, but he had died because of me. I had broken his heart, and never had I felt so low in my life as I did that day.

I am no better a person than our Opera Ghost was. He killed two men for me – and in turn, I killed him by breaking his heart. Everything he ever did, he did for me, and I saw fit to throw it back in his face, Étienne. Do not judge me, I beg of you – I was sixteen and not yet old enough to realize what my actions might bring about. But I admit, here and now on my deathbed, this simple fact. I loved the Opera Ghost. I loved him more than I loved Raoul, but I knew I could never live happily ever after with him. The police would have caught him and killed him. I tried to save his life, but instead I killed him. I go to see my Maker now, Étienne, and there in Heaven I will beg the forgiveness of the Opera Ghost.

* * *

Christine Daaé, Vicomtesse de Chagny, died 17 April 1917. She was sixty-three years of age. Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, denied that there was any truth to the story that his wife related on her deathbed. No record of any Opera Ghost was ever found, no record of an opera called Don Juan Triumphant was ever found, except a score of music from such a play, given to the Chagny family by one Monsieur Patrice Reyer. However, despite this obvious lack of proof, I believe that there will one day be born another woman like Christine Daaé, and she will find this Opera Ghost and repair the heart that her namesake so cruelly shattered. – Étienne Raoul Chagny, 17 April 1917 


	2. London: Flouting The Rules

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – This story is the property of Jordan A. Masters and may not be reproduced in any way, shape, or form without express written permission of Jordan A. Masters, which can be obtained through email. It has not been posted for gain or profit. Most of the characters in this story have been specifically crafted for use within this story. Some of the characters have been borrowed from Andrew Lloyd Webber's play and movie, _The Phantom of the Opera_, and others have been borrowed from Frederick Forsyth's book, _The Phantom of Manhattan_, and I do not own these borrowed characters. Also, some lyrics have been borrowed from Webber's play, with slight modifications – I do _not_ own these lyrics, even though I have modified them.

_**

* * *

London, England, UK; 2000**_

_In sleep  
__he sang to me,  
__in dreams  
__he came…  
__that voice  
__which calls to me  
__and speaks  
__my name…_

_And do  
__I dream again?  
__For now  
__I find  
__the Phantom of the Opera  
__is there –  
__inside my mind…_

My enchantment began at the age of thirteen, which was when I first began to realize that perhaps being a dancer was not truly in my blood. I was so clumsy on my ever-growing feet that I couldn't understand why Meg dared to keep me dancing with the other girls.

"Alyson! Danielle! Morgan! Can you three _kindly_ stop talking? And Kit, child, will you kindly start _dancing_ and not this rhythmic tripping you've been doing for the past _five years_?"

"Sorry, Meg," I said quietly. She shook her head and continued to yell at the girls. I, meanwhile, began to think. What was I doing wrong? Why wouldn't my feet work? Surely, dancing was in my blood; my namesake had been a great dancer and a great singer. So what was I doing wrong?

Meg started up the music again, and we danced again. Well, _they_ danced. I, on the other hand, stumbled around for a few minutes before Meg took me by the arm and pulled me off to the side. "Child," she said, "what is the matter with you? Why can't you dance? Your namesake would be ashamed if she could see you now."

"I'm sorry, Meg…"

"Sorry?! You're _sorry_? You've been sorry for the past five years, child, and I'm truly sick of hearing it. Why don't you ever practice when I tell you to?"

"I do."

"It doesn't look it." She pointed to a chair off to the side of the dancers. "Kindly go sit down and don't bother anyone. You're not dancing with them again until you prove to me why I ever bothered to assign you a part in my ballet corps." With that, she returned to the others, and I sat dutifully and began to think.

How could I prove my worth as a dancer if I couldn't dance? I felt awful; Meg was kind enough to have taken me in, and she was kind enough to teach me to dance. It wasn't that my brain was having trouble understanding what I was being taught; it was that my feet were having trouble understanding what my brain wanted them to do. At least, that was as best as I could figure it. And in thinking, I recalled the day my life had changed forever.

It had been the last day I ever doubted the reason for my existence. It had been the final day I ever questioned the fact that I was, indeed, special to my family line. There had been a prophecy made well before my conception; it had been made even before my great-grandfather's birth. It concerned the fabled Phantom of the Opera, and a young girl supposedly born to the Chagny family line. My parents had toted this weight around on their shoulders when they found out, and decided to see if their child was, indeed, the one meant for this "honor."

When their first child was born a male, they were disappointed, but happy that they did have a child. They named him Gregory Raoul – only his middle name had any significance to it. They decided that God did not want their child to be special to the prophecy, and therefore had given them a boy instead of the girl the prophecy was intended for.

But this would not hold true. Nine years later, though my parents thought it impossible at the time, they conceived a second child, purely by accident. Nine months after that, my mother, Rita Butler Chagny, gave birth to the child she'd wanted since her first one was born: a girl. Fate had dealt them a wild card, they thought. So they decided again to test Fate's hand.

They named her Christine Erika Daaé-Chagny. The curse, they thought, would now be complete. Another Christine had been born.

But in reality, my parents' troubles were just beginning.

Christine Daaé, my namesake, had been an orphan. Her father had died when she was seven, and Antoinette Giry had taken her in as a daughter. My godmother, Marguerite Giry, was her descendant. I had a feeling that my life was about to become legendary.

But my thoughts were interrupted when Meg began screaming at me. "Don't think I can't see your eyes glazed over, Kit!" she called. "Stop daydreaming and pay attention! You might actually learn something – perish the thought."

I grumbled to myself. Meg could be such a pain. But I watched dutifully as the dancers rehearsed again. And again…and again…and again… My thoughts whirled out of control.

It had been raining the night my life changed forever. A downpour worse than I'd ever seen before. No tires ever made could have gotten traction in this rain.

But my parents were convinced that they were unstoppable. Their child was the end of a family curse; nothing could possibly harm her, and so, nothing could harm them.

Poor fools.

My father thought he had control of the car, but in that rain, the weather was in control. He tried to brake to go around a dangerous curve, but he skidded out of control and hit a guardrail. Not only did he hit it, he went through it and the car tumbled down the hill…with all of us still inside. I heard my mother screaming…

"Christine Daaé-Chagny!" Meg screamed at me. My head snapped to her. "You are not paying attention again!"

"Sorry…"

"Do not, do _not_ think I am a fool, Kit!" She was furious. "Stop daydreaming and pay attention!"

I nodded as the dancers started again. I couldn't help it; I was prone to spacing out. As I watched them dance, my mind began to wander again.

My mother had been screaming. My father had been shouting something to Gregory and me, but over my own screaming I could not hear him. When the car hit the bottom of the ravine, there was silence. My mother and father were dead, crushed in the front seat. Gregory was next to me, dying and I knew it, but still conscious. "Kit," he had whispered. "Are you hurt?"

I was not, but I had been too frightened to speak. He had held my hand in his until the paramedics arrived to find us. They bundled him quickly off to hospital, one of the officers giving me a ride. When I arrived, I was informed that my brother had died on the way to hospital. I was an orphan. After a short while, Meg had come to fetch me. She had taken me to her school, the Giry School of Dance, where she took in orphaned girls and molded them into dancers. I was to join them and learn to dance, as my ancestor before me.

And now, years later, I sat on the side, watching them dance as I was ridiculed yet again for my clumsiness. Was it my fault? I watched them file by me, on their way out for a little break. Meg was coming toward me. "Kit," she said. "You must practice. That is the only way you will ever be ready to dance." Then she left. I sat there for another few moments. If only my name wasn't Christine… I got up and followed them out.

After the break, Meg made me try to dance again. I did fairly well this time; I didn't knock into anyone when I fell. After she was satisfied with our performance, she sat us down for a few moments.

"Now, I understand that you are all worried about Lottie. It is only natural that you are. She is in hospital, and she is very sick. The doctors say she may have gone mad."

I remembered poor Lottie. She was the dumb little blonde nine-year-old who went into the basement, even after Meg told us ninety-plus times that it was strictly off-limits. Part of me wanted to know much, much more than Meg was telling. What happened down there? Surely, a person couldn't lose their mind just from a little mildew?

"Consequently, I feel I must remind you all that the basement is absolutely forbidden. It is off-limits for a damn good reason, and I don't have to tell you that your punishment will be most severe if I catch any of you down there. Lottie will not be returning to us, and of course, she has been punished enough already, poor girl." She gave us all a Look. "The basement is still off-limits. You will be punished if you go down there." She shooed us off to our dorms, and as we walked out, Margery came over to me. Margie was Meg's pride and joy, her beautiful daughter, and although Margie didn't know who her father was, she never blamed Meg for that.

"Your shoes are broken," she said without introduction. I looked at her; she was right. My toe shoes looked like someone had taken a knife to them. "You should tell Mom. She'll go down to the basement and grab you a new pair."

"I could do it."

"The basement's forbidden."

I grinned at her. I liked my best friend, even if I did usually get her in trouble with me. "Since when has that ever stopped me?" When she sighed and did not press the issue, I knew I'd won the fight.

When everyone was asleep, I snuck out of my bed. I wasn't afraid of Meg and her stupid rules. I made my way over to the dormitory door quietly, assuring I woke no one. When it became apparent that the other girls were sound asleep, I opened the door and slipped into the hallway, eyeing the basement door. I crept toward it on silent toes, opening the door as quietly as the last. When Meg didn't burst out of her room and scream at me, I slipped into the basement's portal and shut the door behind me.

I clicked on the light. It was nearly blinding. I heard something rustle down by the bottom of the stairs, but I was sure it was just my imagination. As I started down the stairs, something warm and fuzzy started rubbing against my leg. I suppressed a scream as I looked down to see what it was. My breath came out as a sigh. "Ernie," I whispered. "Damn cat." Ernie sat back and put her paws in the air; she wanted to play. But I had more pressing matters. I descended the stairs quietly, looking around for the extra pairs of shoes. Once I found them, I started looking for my size. Spotting them, I made my way over toward the shelf. But I tripped over a box. I looked down at it; it was a pair of shoes in my size. I stooped down to see it; the box looked previously opened. I pulled the shoes out; they were already sewn with ribbons and elastic. I looked around. Meg couldn't have possibly known about my shoes.

I spotted something a few feet away. It was white and looked shiny. I crawled over and looked at it closer. It was a half-mask. I touched it; it was cold. I looked around. This had to be part of someone's Hallowe'en costume. I felt someone's presence in the basement with me. I kept looking around, half-expecting to see someone else. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small movement. I turned my head. There was a black piece of cloth strung across a doorway. I got up, toe shoes in hand, and walked over toward it. I stopped abruptly. I heard a whisper, breathy and male.

"Kit…" The curtain seemed to move. "Kit…"

I ran back up the stairs, as fast as I could, trying not to scream. I hoped I was dreaming. I slammed the basement door shut as I hit the top of the stairs, leaning against it before I went back to my room, trying to slow my racing heart. I had my eyes shut, trying to make sense of it all. I opened my eyes – and immediately knew I was in trouble.

Meg was standing in front of me, arms crossed, a cross look on her face.


	3. London: Gangling To Graceful

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

**_London, England, UK – 2000_**

"Christine Chagny," she said. "You, of all people, child, should know better." She grabbed my ear and hauled me into her room, shutting the door behind us. "All this trouble for a pair of shoes, Kit? You could have just…" She looked at them and saw that they had already been prepared. "Now, how in the world…?"

"Meg, there's someone – or something – down there," I said quietly, not wanting to wake anyone. "I found these like this, and they're the only pair in my size. Someone – or something – is down there."

"Well of course something is down there." I looked at her strangely. "Ernie has to live somewhere, doesn't she, poor dear."

"No, Meg," I said, impatient. "Some_one_ is down there. Some…there's a man down there! I heard him! He said my name!"

She looked at me strangely. "Kit, poor thing, my lecture must have frightened you. Now back to bed with you, child." She started leading me back toward the dorm.

"Meg, I swear I heard a man!"

She clucked her tongue. "Dear, dear, poor Kit." She forced me back into bed and left.

I sat upright, listening as she returned to her room. I could have sworn there had been a voice down in the basement. Or perhaps Meg was right – perhaps I was just imagining things, perhaps her lecture had just frightened me into thinking there was someone in the basement. I lay down and went to sleep.

_

* * *

His hand held mine tightly. "Try once more," he said, his voice breathy and soft. "I will steady you if you fall. Try once more." I prepared and attempted the pirouette, and nearly fell, but felt his hands steadying me as he had promised. "Do not worry, Kit – I am here. You will not fall while I am here."_

_I smiled. I tried to thank him, but my mouth could not form the words. "Do not speak," he said. "Just dance, little angel." I turned to look at him…_

"Christine! To your feet now, child!" Meg's voice pierced the morning air like a hacksaw. I yawned, turning over. I didn't know why, but for having slept so soundly, I was quite tired. And my legs hurt as though I'd danced quite a lot the previous day – and I'd done very little dancing the previous day, I knew it.

"Meg," I said. "I don't feel well."

"You never feel well," she said, waking the other girls still in bed. "Now get up."

I rose dutifully, pulling on a pair of tights and a leotard. As I grabbed my shoes, Margery sat down next to me on my bed. "Wow. You look awful."

"Thanks. I'd hate to feel this bad and have no one notice."

"What happened? Did you practice all night or something? Your shoes look worn out already." She giggled. "The thought of you practicing – that's a laugh riot." Leaving – presumably to get food – she was still laughing.

I looked at my shoes, confused. They had been new the previous night, but lo and behold, they now looked already danced in – not as bad as the ones I'd replaced them for, but still worn. "What the…"

After breakfast, I tugged on Meg's sleeve. "What, child?" she said, sighing.

I showed her my shoes. "Do you still think I'm going 'round the twist?"

She blinked. "Child, you practiced. I'm impressed. Let's see how well you did." She walked away before I could correct her. Stomping my feet, I followed to the dance floor, put my shoes on, and followed in the warm-ups for the day – without falling over the barre or any of the other girls. Meg seemed slightly impressed, and allowed me to participate in the routine.

I managed to execute a perfect pirouette in the center of the stage without knocking myself or anyone else over. Not once – not twice – six times in a row.

At the end of rehearsal for the day, Meg pulled me aside. "How on this planet did you manage to learn that in _one night_, child?"

"I…" I shook my head. "I don't know." I decided not to tell her about the dream – it was simply better if she didn't think me mad. Bad enough I bore the name of my mad ancestor – I didn't need the stigma attached to the name, too. "I really don't know."

"Just don't lose that for tomorrow," Meg said. "We need you now that you're finally able to dance at full capacity." She left the stage as I took my shoes off, looking at how dirty they were. Surprisingly, for having danced so much, they were relatively clean. How on earth, I didn't know, but I just shook my head and started from the stage.

A draft of cold wind ruffled my hair. I looked around, making sure no one had carelessly left a window open by mistake – but they were all shut. Puzzled and a little frightened after my trip to the cellar the night before, I started to shake. "Hello?" I called. "Is…is someone there?" I looked up, into the hangings for the stage lights – something told me that if anything, I should look up.

Something rustled overhead, and I heard footsteps – distinct, running footsteps – on the walkway over my head.

Eyes wide, and choking back a scream, I ran from the stage – and slammed into Meg in the hallway. "Child, _what_ has gotten into you?" she said, turning and holding me by the shoulders.

"_There's someone on the stage!_" I said, now not caring what she thought of me. I knew what I'd heard.

She looked at me as though I'd lost my mind. "There's no one on that stage but you, Kit. Now stop this foolishness." She turned away from me, shaking her head and clucking her tongue.

"Meg," I said, tugging on her sleeve before she could walk away. "Meg, I think it's the Pha…"

She turned back and clapped a hand over my mouth. "Don't you _even_ start with that nonsense. Just because of your name and mine, you suddenly think this place is Paris and you're entitled to blame every strange knock and ping on a fable?"

"But he's not a fable, Meg."

"He's Paris myth, child – my mother brought me up with stories about how my great-great-grandmother was godmother to Etienne." She shook her head. "Kit, do me a favor – stop thinking he's real, or ever was real. Even Raoul denied his existence. Christine was mad – we all know this. Something about the things she did drove her mad – losing her father and being essentially on her own at so young an age, perhaps. Definitely marrying Raoul – that's a given…"

"But didn't Raoul have competition for her? Even she says he did…"

There was a long sigh. "She was _'round the twist_, child! Good heavens, you _believe_ any of the trash she said in her confession?" She stalked off, muttering under her breath – I knew it was probably about my sanity, but I didn't care. She was probably thinking of bundling me off to hospital along with poor psychotic Lottie.

I walked back onto the stage, looking back up into the lighting grid. I couldn't see anything. "Is anyone there?" I called softly.

I heard a snicker from behind me, and turned. Margery was standing behind me. "Who the bleeding hell are you talking to? The lights?"

"I could have sworn there was someone up there not five minutes ago, Margie," I said. "Help me look."

She laughed, shaking her head, and walked away. "Right sodding loon is what you are, girl." I looked up into the grid again, but didn't see anything.

As I walked toward the stage door, I heard footsteps above my head. I looked up quickly, but couldn't see anything. "Hello?" No reply, but I definitely felt someone else's presence above me. "Hello?" When no one answered me again, I left the room.

* * *

Talking in the dorm after class that evening – Meg sent some of us to the local school to be taught our regular subjects like English and mathematics, being that some of us had not yet reached the age where we could officially drop out of formal schooling and dance full-time – I found myself quite left out of the conversation as usual. The other girls loved to talk about petty things – shoes, clothes, boys. I, on the other hand, wanted to talk about dancing – occasionally singing – and, more often than not, something they all only considered a fable. 

"Kit?" I looked up as I heard Qusanna calling my name. Poor Qusie – Etienne's brother, Guillaume, had adopted a son – thereby taking Qusie's entire family line out of the prophecy for good. My poor cousin – even if she was a bit like Christine, it didn't matter now – she didn't have the blood to back it up. "Do you want to add to the discussion, Kit?" And so condescending for being four months younger than me, too.

I put down the book I was reading and looked around the room. There were twenty-two eyes on me – eleven pairs, including Qusie and Margie. I shook my head. "No – I feel quite happy just listening to you all prattle on about nothing, actually."

Only Bonnie – the youngest – snickered. Everyone else looked like I'd just cursed at them. "Oh, what?" Celine said from her top bunk, wrinkling her nose. "You want us to talk about…oh, let's see, what's your usual these days…_the Phantom of the Opera_?" Now everyone laughed as my face turned bright red. "Kit, he's a myth, nothing more, and we're sick of hearing about him."

"Here's an idea," Sarah said, staring at me from her place on the floor. "Let's hear you describe your perfect man. And for Heaven's sake, if I even _hear_ the words 'mask,' 'cape,' or 'angel,' I'm tossing something heavy at you."

I sighed, preparing myself for the onslaught. "I don't _have_ a perfect man. I think I'd love the Phantom of the Opera if he'd love me back." Within seconds, several pairs of toe shoes hit me in various places – it hurt, but not nearly as much as the next voice.

"It does not do well to live in a dream, Christine – you ought to know that at your age, child." I looked over at Meg, framed in the doorway. The room was eerily silent. "Please, girls – it's supper time now, do come eat." The others scrambled to their feet and ran for the door, but I stayed sitting for a moment, listening and thinking about what Meg had said.

And I heard it. So soft I could not have detected it if I had been moving – laughter. Male laughter. After a moment, it stopped. I looked around, trying to see where it could have come from, but I couldn't possibly tell.

I shook my head, getting to my feet and heading toward the dining room. "Margie's right – I'm a sodding loon."


	4. London: Just A Dream

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

London, England, UK – 2000**_

_He pushed a curtain aside, and led me through the opening. "Come, my little angel – it is time for your lesson." I felt his hands on mine, leading me farther in – somehow my toe shoes were already on my feet. "Are you ready, little angel?" I nodded slowly. "Then let us begin…"_

"_Christine Daaé-Chagny!_" I opened my eyes as Meg's scream reached my ears. "Damn it, child, next time I'm just dumping a pail of water on you. This is two weeks straight now…"

"Meg," I said, reaching out and grabbing her by the wrist before she could walk away. "My legs hurt." It was true – I could feel a cramp in both calves and for some odd reason, I thought I knew why. And then the silly thought that I'd been dancing all night passed – I remembered going to sleep. "I can't dance today. I really can't."

She looked at me and studied my face for a moment. "Why do I…_actually_ believe you?" She sighed. "Come over to my room in five minutes, all right?" Without another word, she walked away.

Eventually, I was able to pull myself out of bed – rather painfully at that – and I hobbled over into Meg's room. She was sitting in her comfortable chair, and she beckoned me to sit on her bed. "Child," she said getting up and shutting the door. "Tell me what's going on. You're practicing at night and every morning it's 'Meg, I can't dance.' What is going on?"

I sighed. "I'm not practicing at night."

"You've gone through ten pairs of shoes in two weeks. This isn't like you – you usually don't use any. So what's going on?" She cocked her head to one side. "Tell me, Kit."

There was nothing for it. I had to tell her. "I'm having strange dreams. Meg, I…I think they're _real_." She sighed, and opened her mouth, but I cut her off. "No, hear me out. I keep dancing in my dreams – like I'm being tutored by someone in how to dance. It's a man teaching me – I never see his face, but I can clearly hear his voice, and I've never heard him before. He calls me…" I sighed – this was the part I was sure she would yell at me for. "He calls me 'little angel,' and I know it sounds like something I'd make up, Meg, but I'm not making this up. It's true."

I stared at her for a moment. Her face was pale. Then the color seemed to return to it. "Go back to bed," she said shortly. "You're excused for the day – if the dreams continue, tell me every time you have one." Without another word to me, she raced out of the room, flinging the door wide. "Dance class is cancelled this morning!" she screamed loudly. "Do something productive!" As I hobbled back to bed, I heard the cellar door open, and I turned to look, but as I did, it shut.

There was something she wasn't saying – I was sure of it.

I lay in bed, afraid to sleep, trying to convince myself that they were just dreams. The cramps in my legs said otherwise. But after awhile, the fact that I was in bed started to droop my eyelids, and I had to give in.

When I awoke, Meg was shaking me. She was holding a steaming bowl of soup. "You need to keep your strength up," she said, holding out a spoon to me, dragging over a small table and setting the bowl on it.

"I'm not sick."

She smiled. "As far as the good people at your school are concerned, you are." There was a knock at the dorm door, and I looked over – my only friend from class, Sean Davidson, stood there, clutching a satchel and looking nervous.

"Um…hi," he said, a little jittery. "I brought Kit's work for her – I didn't know if I should just leave it with someone else, or…"

Meg smiled. "Come on in, Sean. I'll let you explain it to her." Sean took Meg's spot on the side of my bed as she got up.

"Hi, Sean."

He grinned at me. "Feeling better?"

"Not really."

He ruffled my hair – though he was in my year at school, he was nearly two years my senior and had been a friend of my brother's until his death. "Well, you have to get better. You have work to do. Including a project with me." He grinned. "Picked you as partner myself, I did."

"Thanks, Sean." I leaned over and hugged him – he smelled faintly of cologne and soap. "You're a saint."

After Sean had gone, Meg came back in. "I need to tell you something," she said.

I folded my hands in my lap. "The dreams I had were just that – dreams – weren't they?"

She nodded. "Yes. Nothing more. They were the same that Lottie had right before she broke down and I don't want the same to happen to you, child – you're too important to me." She took my hand and patted it. "I promised your parents that I would take care of you and I will. But _please_, Christine – _no more Phantom talk_. Do you understand me?"

I nodded. I looked at her. "But the fact that Andrew Lloyd Webber talked to my family when he wrote his play has to account for _something_, doesn't it?"

She sighed, rising from the bed and walking away. "What did I just say?"


	5. London: Paris Beckons

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

London, England, UK – 2003**_

Now sixteen, Meg had finally decided that I was of an age to stop formal schooling and dance full-time – and I had decided to do so. I was sad to leave my schooling – and Sean – but dancing was foremost in my mind, and Sean understood. He came to visit me regularly, and while Meg did not approve, she allowed it only after I told her of Sean's promise to my brother to care for me.

Meg had also decided on a prima ballerina, and while it was not me, I was not sorry. The only regret I had was that Gloria – the one Meg had chosen – was lording it over everyone else, and especially me. "Oh, gee," she said to my face the day she found out, "Daaé isn't the prima ballerina. What a shock."

I gritted my teeth and bore the double insult – among other things, I hated any reference to Christine and intended, someday, to have her name deleted from mine.

The bigger shock was that about six months into the year – at our summer show – two people approached Meg backstage. I stayed close enough to eavesdrop – along with Margery, who was curious. "Madame Giry?"

"Yes?" I watched Meg turn to the two people – a tall, portly man and a tall, skinny woman. "Can I…can I help you?"

"Perhaps you can," the woman said. "My name is Nichole Firmin. This is my associate, J. Pierre André. We are very impressed with your company." She handed Meg a card. "We'd love to have you think about moving your company to our new theatre in Paris."

My eyes went wide. Paris. And not only that, but their names. Firmin and André. What a pairing! It couldn't have been more perfect.

Meg was smiling – I could recognize her ironic one. "I like the name – very…touristy."

The man – J. Pierre, I figured, to call him André was just not fitting – smiled. "It was built right on the ruins of the old one."

I looked at Margery. "The old one?" I mouthed.

She shook her head. "I don't know," she mouthed back.

Meg laughed. "And I suppose you have some idiot in a cape and half mask running around wreaking all sort of scripted mayhem on the place, do you?"

My eyes went wider. "The Opéra Populaire?" I whispered to Margery. She nodded wildly. My breathing quickened – it couldn't be. It had been three years since I'd even had a Phantom-related thought – to toss me back into that world was inviting a disaster beyond imagination.

There was a long pause. I silently begged Meg to decline the offer. "You know what?" she said. "The London stage isn't really suited for ballet anymore. And it says here you need ballet girls for your musicals – fine. We'll move the girls to Paris."

I nearly burst out screaming.

* * *

After dance class the next night, Meg sat us down. "Girls, I have a bit of news." Already knowing this news, I sat quietly and pretended I didn't. "After our show the other night, I was approached by two people from Paris – they want us to move the school to Paris and to be the ballet chorus in their musical productions." There was a flurry of excitement, and at once, Danielle spoke.

"A musical theatre in Paris? What's the name of it?"

Meg smiled. "The Opéra Populaire." The flurry stopped. "The owners are very nice – two people, their names are Nichole Firmin and J. Pierre André. Apparently they built the theatre right where the old one used to stand, so it's a piece of antiquity, too – they salvaged decorations from the old one to use in theirs." She took a breath as murmurs picked up again.

Without warning, I heard a voice – definitely not one of the girls, unless someone's voice had deepened three octaves overnight. "_The hell you're going back to Paris!_" Overhead, I heard something come loose, and instinctively I looked up – one of the rows of lights was starting to wobble right over Meg's head.

"Meg!" I cried. She stared at me. "Up!" The lights started to fall, and she looked up and dove out of the way just in time. The lights crashed to the stage where she'd been standing just seconds before – she would have been killed if she'd stayed where she'd been. Everyone was quiet, and stared at the broken lights.

Meg looked around after a few minutes. "Is anyone hurt?" We shook our heads – obviously she'd been the intended target. She looked at me. "Child, how did you know that was going to happen?"

I looked at her, tears rolling down my face. "Will someone wake me up from this nightmare, please?"

* * *

As we were packing up our things a few more strange incidents occurred. There were random little fires that Meg had to put out. Boxes of shoes randomly went missing – even some of the girls' shoes went missing. We all awoke one morning to find most of our stuff strewn about the room randomly – and we knew we didn't do it. Minor inconveniences – but they were still a bit too reminiscent of Christine.

As we were packing on our last night in London, I felt sad, knowing it was my last night in London. I'd already been to Sean's house to say my goodbyes, but he wasn't there – his mother said he'd gone abroad a few months before. It made sense – and explained the sudden stop in his visits to me. I decided to write to him often, hoping he come to Paris to see me – hoping his mother would forward the letters to him.

The next morning, the building was eerily quiet. It was very empty – we had emptied it bit by bit until nothing remained of the school. As we filed outside, I noticed a bus – the kind with comfortable seats and a lavatory – and smiled. "Are we taking _this_ to Paris?"

"No," Meg said. "To the Channel Tunnel station. Then it's leaving us until we get to Paris. We'll pick it up at the station in Paris and take it to the theatre."

As always, someone had to open their mouth – this time, it was Raven. "But if we're taking the Tunnel, then why do we need _this_?"

Meg – putting the few things she was carrying into the hands of the driver – turned to Raven. "This is what was hired for us, and I'm not about to refuse. If you'd rather get to Paris some other way, by all means, start walking." She stepped on to the bus, and I followed her, the rest of the girls falling into line behind me.

As the bus pulled away, I looked at the building – and a thought occurred to me. "Meg," I said. She turned in her seat to look at me. "What happened to Ernie?"

"You know, when I went to find the poor dear, I couldn't." She sighed. "I have a feeling that damn cat finally up and ran off." She reached across the aisle and patted my hand. "But don't you worry – she'll be all right."

I could have sworn I heard a cat meowing from the back at her words. I looked around toward the back – only to see an "Out of Order" sign on the lavatory door. I sighed. "I _am_ going mad," I whispered, not loudly enough for anyone around me to hear.

As soon as we reached the station – it wasn't far – the driver let us off and drove away, toward his own station. We boarded our train, and I watched London disappear, trying not to cry. I gazed out the window, watching things fly by and not much caring where we were. We were headed to Paris – and after everything I'd been hearing and seeing lately, nothing good could come of it.

I felt another person next to me and looked – it was Margery. "Can you believe it?" she said, her eyes dreamy. "We're going to _Paris_!"

I sighed. "I don't want to go there, Margie."

"Oh, why not? You're such a spoilsport, it's sickening sometimes, you know." She shoved me in the arm.

I shoved her back. "Firstly, my parents and family are buried there. Secondly, _did you hear the name of the theatre_? And the _managers_?"

"So?"

"And now they have a Giry as ballet mistress? It would only be fitting if their first play was going to _be_ that damn play." I sighed, looking back out the window. "Just leave me to my misery, all right?" She said nothing for a few minutes, then started humming. I listened, then turned abruptly, wanting to hit her – she was humming the title song. "Stop that!"

"Why?"

"Do you _have_ to make things ten times worse by humming that infernal song?!"

She grinned. "I knew that would get a rise out of you." She put her headphones on and turned her music on, now ignoring me completely.

As soon as we reached Paris, and found the bus – it was already there waiting for us, which I found strange, as Meg had specifically said we might have to wait a bit for it – we boarded it, and it took us through the city. The other girls had their noses nearly pressed up against the windows, gawping at nearly everything, but I just sat staring at my folded hands. I hated Paris – it held nothing but bad memories for me. But rather than spout my views, I sat quietly and let the others have their fun.

Eventually, the bus stopped, and I looked up and out the window. My breath caught in my throat. Christine's descriptions of the theatre had been corroborated by Raoul, and I was certain I was looking at it now, or at least the outside façade of it. "My God." I started shrinking into my seat. "Oh, my God."

Meg rose from her seat as I heard someone else boarding the bus – it was Nichole. "Ah, ladies," Nichole said. "Let me be the first to welcome you to the Opéra Populaire." She motioned for us to disembark, and the other girls started to do so. I stayed motionless in my seat, and Meg stared at me.

"Are you all right?" she said.

I shook my head. "Does anyone else hear the Overture starting?"


	6. Paris: Overture

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2003**_

_In sleep  
__he sang to me,  
__in dreams  
__he came…  
__that voice  
__which calls to me  
__and speaks  
__my name…_

Once we were inside, I could see the layout was very different than what Christine had ever described. We were given a small tour – I paid little to no attention. I did not care. I did not want to be here. I wanted to be back in London, curled up in my bed with Ernie curled up by my feet.

We were led down to the stage area to meet some of the regular cast and crew – and I heard a baritone warming up. I looked over by the piano and gasped. "Sean." When he spotted the gaggle of dancers as we piled onstage, his eyes lit up and he motioned for the pianist to stop playing.

He was grinning as he rushed over, and Nichole was trying to introduce him. "Oh, uh…this is…"

"Sean!" I vaulted into his arms as he held them out to me.

"Oh, boy!" He twirled me around and we laughed. "I meant to come tell you I was leaving, Kit, but it was so sudden…they caught me at school and I said yes…"

I kissed his cheek. "It's all right – I'm a dancer here now." His eyes lit up, and he looked at Meg.

"Do you mind if I take her around, introduce her to some people?" Meg shook her head, sighing, and he grinned as he took my hand and dragged me away. He led me first to a small group of people, all talking, and he pointed them out, not getting too close. "Um…I don't think we'd better interrupt them, but I'll tell you who they are. The redheaded woman is Freya Reyer – she's the conductor."

A Reyer was the conductor? I added that to my running mental "can't possibly just be a coincidence" list.

He gestured again. "The blond, currently screaming gent is Eliot Piroleya – he's another singer, a tenor mostly, and actually will probably end up switching back and forth with me for the lead, depending on what voice part they need." Sean grinned. "Can you believe I'm a singer?"

I hugged him tightly. "I'm proud of you. Who are the rest of them?"

"Oh, right. Sorry. The woman standing next to Freya is Cendrine André – she's J. Pierre's wife." He waved his hand dismissively. "The others are just some extras or something, I don't know who they are." I nodded, and he pulled me toward the piano where a girl was finishing her rehearsal.

She looked over at Sean. "Ah, Sean," she said, swooping toward him and kissing him on both cheeks. "How are you?"

He grinned. "Not bad, Theodosia, not bad." He gestured toward me. "There's someone I'd like you to meet. This is Christine Daaé-Chagny – she's one of the new dancers. Kit, this is Theodosia Giarardi – she's the female lead, and one of the best sopranos I've ever heard."

She looked at me and nodded. "Well, aren't you adorable?" Her accent was heavy – I couldn't tell what accent it was, but it definitely wasn't French. From her name, I would have assumed Italian, but I never assumed anymore. I couldn't even tell how old she was – she was definitely older than Sean, but after that I didn't know.

Sean gestured to the pianist. "And this is Freya's sister, Kerstin Reyer – our pianist." She nodded at me, but did not speak. After Sean talked with them for a few minutes, we started off again. "There's someone you won't see here – that's Narcisse Firmin, Nichole's brother. He's the patron – he gives her money to run the place when they haven't taken any in. It's not because he believes in the theatre or the arts – it's because he thinks his sister's lazy and she begged him." I giggled, and Sean looked at me, smiling. "Yeah, that was my reaction, too."

As we walked toward the back of the stage, a younger man – I guessed around Sean's age – came sliding down a rope from overhead. "Hey, Sean. Who's this?"

"Oh, hi, Toby." Sean looked back at me. "This is one of the dancers – Christine Daaé-Chagny."

Toby smiled. "Oh, that girl you're always talking about." He looked at me. "I can't get this kid to shut up about you half the time."

Sean took a swing at Toby. "That's enough, now." They laughed, and Toby unhooked himself from the rope and ran off, talking into a walkie-talkie about something.

I looked up at Sean. "You…you talk about me?"

He blushed. "Uh…not as much as he'd have you believe."

"Sean…"

He ran a hand through his hair as he pulled me along again. "Well…"

"Sean Davidson…"

"All right, all right, I admit it. Yes, I talk about you. But," he said, turning to me, "it's only because I missed you, Kit. You…" He sighed. "You know how I feel about you."

It was my turn to blush. It was true – I _did_ know how he felt about me, and I'd had a nagging feeling that my rejection of his affections had been the catalyst for his leaving London. "You didn't leave London because of me…?"

"No, I didn't. I left because I had a chance and I had to take it." He took my hand, looking in my eyes. "Kit, I…oh, God…" He sighed. "You're so hung up on the idea of _destiny_ that you don't even see what's in front of you – the fact that I could be…"

"You could be Raoul."

He sighed again, louder this time. "That…"

"Sean…"

"…is…"

"No, Sean…"

"…a…"

"…it's not."

"…myth."

"It's not!"

"How many times do I have to say it before you believe me?"

"A million or more."

His sigh sounded half-exasperated, half-infuriated. "Jesus, Kit, this isn't funny anymore. When you were thirteen, it was actually cute that you believed it. But you're sixteen now – it's been so long that you've believed this, I'm starting to wonder if there isn't something truly wrong with your head."

As he said the words, I started to tear up. "Are you _mad_ at me?"

He saw the tears. His expression calmed. "No, Kit, I'm not." He stroked my hair. "I'm sorry I sounded like I was. It's…it's been a very long day already." Even his sweet brown eyes smiled this time. "You forgive me?" I nodded. "Okay, then let's…"

Before we could move, someone jumped out of the wings and screamed at Sean, drawing a sword and pointing it at his throat.


	7. Paris: Rehearsals

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2003**_

I shrieked loudly, hiding behind Sean, clinging to his shirt and trying to drag him out of the way. All I could think about was what I'd called him earlier – Raoul. He was about to die and I'd called him Raoul – I'd condemned him with that cursed name.

But…he was laughing. I looked at him – the sword had stopped two inches from his Adam's apple. And he was laughing. "Hello, François."

I peeked out at the man holding the sword. He was dressed like the Phantom – but something was off. He didn't have jet black hair – he was a redhead. I raised one eyebrow at Sean, and he looked at me, laughing.

"See? I think that myth's addled your brains, Kit." The boy lowered the sword – I finally noticed it was a metallic-looking plastic, not real metal – and Sean put his arm around the boy. "This is François Boucher, Toby's brother. He _plays_ the Phantom here – it's a publicity thing." Sean turned to François. "Sword today? Where's the noose?"

"Not supposed to use it on the singers anymore," François said. He sounded disappointed. "Nichole got pissed because Eliot forgot to put his arm in it, even though I didn't pull it tight. She said I could have damaged his vocal chords, so I'm not to use that on you or him or Theodosia – not that I'd use it on her. She's too fragile." He pranced around, apparently imitating Theodosia, and Sean laughed.

"Yeah, she's too fragile for the Phantom," he said. "Oh, François, this is Christine Daaé-Chagny, one of the new dancers."

He bowed to me, taking my hand to kiss it – then did a double take. "Daaé?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Christine Daaé-Chagny? As in…Christine's descendent?"

I nodded again. "Yep."

He stood up and pointed at Sean menacingly. "Sir, I do proclaim you…_Raoul_!"

I laughed, and Sean looked at me. "What's so funny?"

"I told you so." He frowned, which just made me laugh harder, and even François joined in.

* * *

The next few days brought sheer hell as we rehearsed dances for the upcoming performance – a musical written by Nichole, with music and lyrics by her sister, Lily. It was apparently called _One Night, One More Time_, though none of us could figure out why – there was no such song in the entire play. And none of us could figure out the plot, if there was one. François ran around, giving us some laughs and general mayhem, but for the most part he was rehearsing as well – he had a job to do, and that was actually scripted right into the play. He was to disrupt the play at various points to complain as the Phantom. I simply rolled my eyes and laughed at François' antics when he passed by me – even if he was the worst copy of the Phantom I'd ever seen, he was good for a laugh when the noose failed to dispatch a potential victim and he looked surprised. 

On the last day of rehearsals, Nichole brought a girl into the room we were warming up in. "Ah, Madame Giry," she said, leading the little redhead in. "This is Perrie Jeandeau. She will be joining your ballet corps." As Meg and Nichole started arguing, I heard a little yelp from behind me. I turned to see Margery's eyes wide.

"What's wrong?"

"What?" Margery looked at me like I thought I'd looked at Meg the night she'd caught me in the cellar. "Oh, nothing, Kit."

"No, something's wrong. What is it?"

She lowered her voice. "She's pretty."

In an instant, I realized something. "Margie, you're not…?" She nodded. "But you always talked about boys."

"Just to shut them up." She motioned to the other girls, all talking – they weren't paying any attention to us. She looked back over my shoulder toward Perrie. "You think she likes boys? I don't think she does – it kind of shows on her face 'cause if you look really closely you can tell sometimes when they don't like boys."

I shook my head. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"I thought you'd laugh at me."

"No more than you laughed at me for thinking…"

"Yeah, but you're a nutter." She was grinning and still checking out Perrie, so I turned away and left her alone.

Perrie had learned all the dances we needed to know for the show, and fit very well with us – luckily. I had a feeling Meg wouldn't have been too happy if she'd had to train another girl at this point.

At dinner – the dancers ate separately from the rest of the crew, although Sean joined us when he had time – I noticed Margery and Perrie holding hands under the table and giggling with each other. "Wow," I whispered to my forkful of mashed potatoes, "that girl sure works fast." I looked around at the other girls, all sitting at tables together and talking, while I had my own. It wasn't as though I could join them – I had my own table because no one, even Margery, wanted me at their table. I didn't mind – at least they had less of a chance of hitting me with food if they tried to throw it from a different table.

As I finished dinner, I went over to Meg, who was still eating. "Can I go to bed? I'm not feeling well."

She nodded. "I'll send a bottle of water up with Margie for you."

Climbing the stairs to the dorms, I listened to the laughter from the crew's dining room. I started to wonder why we weren't allowed to eat with them – and then I stopped. I knew even if we had been, I'd have been sitting alone. Sean was important here, and I wasn't. I was just a dancer. He had connections and had to keep up an appearance – he wouldn't have been sitting with me if he could help it. I finished climbing the stairs into the dorm. Besides, Sean took care of me as much as he had to and no more – that was all Greg had asked him to do.

I started to change for bed the second I was anywhere near my bed. I looked across the room at the mirror. Catching my own reflection, I turned away. "Gross," I said. "I'm not a dancer. I'm a pig."

Without warning… "…Kit…"

I looked around, now changed for bed. A male voice, soft and breathy…it couldn't be. "You're not real," I muttered, climbing under my blankets and pulling them up to my chin. "You're not real. You're not real, you're not real, I'm just going mad."

"…Kit…"

I pulled my blankets up higher. "You're not real," I whispered into my pillow, shaking.

There was silence. I shut my eyes, breathing deeply. "…Christine…"

I curled into a ball underneath my blankets. "It's just a dream. It's just a dream…"

* * *

The next morning, I woke to screams. I opened my eyes and looked around – the other girls were just waking up as well. 

"Did anyone hear that?" Perrie said, starting to dress quickly. There were murmurs of assent, and we all started to dress quickly. As soon as I was dressed, I raced out the door – there were girls in front of me and behind me – and down the stairs, but Meg was trying to usher us back into the dorm.

"No, girls, get back inside." Her words had little effect – we barreled down the stairs and into the theatre.

The screaming was coming from the stage, and as soon as I hit the stage, I felt Sean's arms around me. "Kit, you shouldn't be here."

"Why…?" I looked around him and saw François. He was lying on the stage, unmoving – a noose around his neck, a piece of paper lying on his back. I clung to Sean, starting to cry. "Who would do this?"

"We don't know." He patted my back. "It's all right, Kit, I'm here. I'm here."

We gathered around as Nichole picked up the piece of paper – it was folded and sealed with wax. "This is odd," she said. "Who does this anymore?"

I looked at the seal as she broke it – a red skull. "Oh, boy," I muttered. "Please, no…"

Nichole sighed as she read the note. "This is either one huge practical joke or very, very serious – and I'm opting for the former." She cleared her throat and read.

_I welcome you to my opera house – please be advised that this type of nonsense will not be tolerated and that this man's death could have been avoided if you had just realized I do not take mockery kindly. As before, I will require a salary – seeing as the times have changed, I do believe 300,000 ought to do, and whatever currency you're using now will suffice. At the timing of this note, my salary is overdue – please do pay it promptly. Also, Box Five will be kept empty for me – seeing as how your custom, per this thing called "publicity" is to keep it unsold in the first place, this should be no trouble at all.  
__I remain your obedient servant, O.G._

Nichole threw the note to the floor. "It's preposterous! Who did this? I want an answer – now, damn it!"

There were murmurs all across the crew. Sean looked at me as I started to shake – now I was convinced. "What's wrong?"

"He's here."

Sean was still patting my back, his lips in a line. "Don't even say it."

"The Phantom's struck again." Sean sighed as I clung to his shirt. "Poor François."


	8. Paris: Premiere Night

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2003**_

It was decided – just before the show opened – that J. Pierre would fill in the lines that François was supposed to have done. The actions would be cut from the script, since there was absolutely no way J. Pierre could look the part – but he did sound frightening enough.

As the curtain went up, I felt a twitter in my stomach – and suppressed it. This was absolutely no time to be nervous. I heard Sean's voice ring out across the theatre, starting the play, and as the dancers filed onstage, I chanced a glance up toward Box Five, which I knew would be empty – it was unsold.

There was a shadow inside it. I could have screamed, but the spotlight hit me and the other dancers, and the dance flooded my brain, suppressing the scream.

When we reached the first place where "The Phantom" was supposed to interrupt, I saw J. Pierre preparing himself to bellow into the microphone backstage – and without warning:

"_What? Have they cast a toad in the lead role?_" The audience laughed, but I started to shake. That was not the line – and what was more, J. Pierre hadn't spoken. It continued: "_I've heard better singing from a swamp!_" Now the audience was in hysterics. Theodosia ran from the stage in tears, off into the wing where J. Pierre was standing, and I saw from the corner of my eye as she struck him full across the face.

The curtain was brought down, and the audience began to clap, thinking it was the end of a scene or something, I figured. Nichole and J. Pierre rushed on from opposite directions, gathering the cast. "Wonderful, Jacques," Nichole said, looking at J. Pierre. "What the _hell_ did you go and do _that_ for? Now she won't sing the rest of the play and she's got no understudy!"

I silently prayed they cancelled the play and refunded money.

Without warning, Meg appeared by my side. "You can sing, child, can't you?"

"Don't do this," I hissed at her. "Just because _she_ could sing doesn't mean _I _can, too…"

She caught the managers' attention. "This young girl here can sing it. She has been rehearsing all the lines and can sing the part." I buried my face in my hands as they looked at me – every eye was on me.

"Can she?" Nichole said.

Before I could refute Meg's claim, a voice from nowhere started laughing – quietly, but laughing. "_Have I ruined the show? Or will it still go on, despite your lack of lead?_" Another quiet chuckle. "_I do hope I've ruined it for you._" I could tell the audience was not hearing this voice by the lack of reaction from that side of the curtain.

Immediately changing my mind, I squared my shoulders. "Yeah, I can do it."

J. Pierre looked at me. "What's your name, child?"

"Christine Daaé-Chagny."

Nichole looked ready to faint. "Oh, for the love of God – I _told_ you we shouldn't have named this place the Opéra Populaire. I _told_ you it was bad luck. But you didn't listen to me and now we're _stuck_ here." She looked at me. "Is that your real name?" When I nodded, she covered her eyes. "Dancer to diva…and you're named Christine Daaé…sweet Jee-zus." She waved her hand. "Fine. If you can sing it, then fine. Giry, get her into costume." Meg led me offstage and into a dressing room – I could tell it was Theodosia's, but since she appeared to have left the building, she didn't need it – and started dressing me in a costume for the play.

As soon as I was dressed, Meg led me back onto the stage. Sean grabbed my hand and forced me onto Theodosia's mark. "Are you sure you can do this?" I nodded, hoping I wasn't lying to him.

The curtain opened again, and the audience applauded. Nichole had decided we'd start from the next scene – it was better if the audience didn't know that the previous interruption _hadn't_ actually been part of the play.

We started the scene, and I found I wasn't too bad at acting – it didn't require much, just pretending I was someone else, which I'd been trying to do my whole life anyway. Then I heard the orchestra cuing me in. I opened my mouth to sing – and croaked out a few random notes in a high pitch. There were varied gasps and murmurs from the audience as I stopped and the orchestra silenced.

Freya looked up at me, bewilderment on her face. "You call that _singing_?" she mouthed. "Sing, child!" The orchestra cued me in again, and I tried again – with the same result. It wasn't that I couldn't sing – I just had no control over my voice.

The curtain was brought down again, and we could hear the ominous laughter as the cast gathered center stage. But as Nichole and J. Pierre joined us, the laughter silence – the voice did not speak this time.

"What the hell was that?" J. Pierre said. "I thought you said you could sing!"

"No," I said, "_Meg_ said I could sing. I only agreed because you obviously weren't going to give me a chance to defend myself – I have no control over my voice." There were murmurs of dissent throughout the cast.

Nichole looked faint. "Refunds – do you know what this will mean?" The managers walked off, dismissing the cast for the night. Cendrine – our stage manager – walked through the curtain and announced that the play had been cancelled and that refunds would be available at the box office.

Sean looked at me as we walked off into the wings. "I thought you said you could sing it."

"I'm sorry…"

He walked away, shaking his head. "Stick to ballet, Kit – it suits you better." I felt awful – his first show, and I'd ruined it.

No, not me. I looked up and saw Toby smiling at me. "Hey, Kit," he said. "You know, all you need's a little practice and you could be good." He looked thoughtful. "Well…better than Theodosia anyway."

I looked around – the stage was barren. It was only Toby and me. "Toby, you didn't see anyone back here tonight, did you? Someone on retainer – not on regular cast…"

"Oh, you mean Erik?"


	9. Paris: Why Me

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2003**_

I stared up at him with wide eyes. "W…what? You…you _saw_ him?"

He nodded. "Oh, yeah. A few times now." He grabbed the railings of the staircase leading up to the walkway he was on and slid down to me. "Come on, you haven't noticed how similar my name is to Buquet yet, have you?"

I shook my head – I'd have added it to the mental list if I had. "Damn it, your brother…is that why…?"

He sighed. "No. No, that was for mocking him. He really doesn't like that. But he tried to dispatch me first."

I looked at him. "But you…you're still alive. How?"

He chuckled, leading me backstage proper and gesturing to a chair. He sat in another, folding his hands and looking at me. "Simple, really. He snuck up on me in the prop room, and the second I heard something whistle toward me – I knew it was a noose just from the sound of it – I put my hand up." He made the gesture – his arm would have been in the noose and therefore it would not have been able to be pulled tight about his neck. "I thought it was François, but when I realized my brother was rather theatrical and not stealthy in the least, I whipped the noose off and turned to find myself face-to-face with the _real_ Phantom." He shuddered. "Most frightening thing I've ever seen – him standing there, this murderous look on his face, and then it turning to surprise when he realized he couldn't kill me. He threatened to come back if I told anyone what I'd seen…" He looked around, but Erik didn't seem to be around. "I don't know what to think, Kit – I mean, if I hadn't clearly felt the noose and still had burn marks from the rope, I'd have thought it was a dream." He pulled up his sleeve to show me the marks where the noose had pulled tight on his arm.

"But Toby," I said. "How…his name is Erik? I mean, I know that – it's in my family records because Christine knew that – but how did _you_ know that?"

He smiled. "He told me. We talked – as soon as I could get him to stop trying to strangle me, that is – and he actually realized it might be useful to have the chief stagehand as an ally."

"How?"

"Well, I know all the passages above the stage, backstage, below it – and coincidentally," he said, lowering his voice, "don't believe Nichole and J. Pierre – or anyone for that matter – when they tell you that there's no way down into the ruins of the old opera house. I found a way. I have a feeling that's where he's living – back in his old lair seven floors down."

"Eight."

He stopped and looked at me, arching an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"It was seven floors down from the stage of the _old_ Opéra Populaire. Now that they've built the new one right on top of the ruins, it's eight floors, Toby."

He shook his head. "See? This is why I'm the tech guy – I don't do math." He got up and waved to me, heading off to monitor the clean-up crew.

I headed off toward the dining rooms. I was starving. As I approached them, I heard my name – several times by several different voices – and none of what they were saying was good. I headed up to the dorms instead, deciding to spare them my presence. I was halfway up the stairs when I heard Sean's voice float out from the crew dining room.

"Kit? Yeah, that was pretty much a disaster, wasn't it? I mean, she's not that bad an actress, but when you're in a musical, it's not just the acting – you really do have to be able to sing. And that wasn't singing – I'm utterly surprised whomever that was didn't shame her as well." There was raucous laughter from the dining room, and I raced up the rest of the steps, holding back tears. What a jerk. He'd turned on me – he was supposed to defend me and instead he was in there, making a mockery of me? I'd slap him if he tried to make nice to me again.

As soon as I reached the dorm, I shut the door behind me and ran and collapsed onto my bed, clutching my pillow to me as I started to cry. I'd been proven right at the show – so I couldn't sing well, but so what? The Phantom – Erik – was here, in the theatre, and I'd been right. Now Nichole and J. Pierre would have no choice but to pay his salary – he'd just get mad if they didn't.

"…Kit…" The voice came out of nowhere, and I looked over toward the mirror. It seemed to be coming from there.

After hearing the voice at the performance tonight, I was sure now – the voice belonged to Erik. But still – I couldn't stop my mouth. "It's not real. It's a dream…"

There was a movement in the grate next to the mirror, and a figure emerged from it – clad in black, with a white half-mask on one side of his face. I gasped and clutched the pillow tighter as his sardonic smile chilled me. "A dream, am I?"


	10. Paris: Descend Again With Me

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2003**_

I tried to scream – I didn't want to suppress it this time – but no sound came out when I opened my mouth. I tried twice more, but still the same – nothing. Erik chortled, sweeping his cape behind one shoulder – he was holding a noose in one hand, and I started to shake, but my hands remained clutching the pillow. "It will do you no good to scream – any who come, I can easily dispatch." He looked at me, seemingly interested in something. "You do not fear me."

I finally found my tongue – and instead of screaming, since he'd told me it was useless anyway, I spoke to him. "What…what gave you that idea?"

"Your hand has not gone to your eyes to keep the noose from strangling you. Obviously you do not think I will use it on you."

I shuddered. "Will…will you?"

He held out his free hand to me. "What do you think? Now, come with me."

I shook my head. "Never. You killed François…"

"I did what had to be done." He said it so simply and quietly, I silenced. My argument died in my throat at his words – it wouldn't do any good, it wouldn't bring François back anyway. He gestured for me to take his hand. "Come with me. Now."

"Why?"

"You _dare_ to question your teacher?"

At once, I realized where I'd heard his voice before – before tonight, even. "You," I breathed, abandoning my pillow and standing, moving toward him slightly. "You taught me to dance."

The quiet chuckle came again – but from much closer this time. "And I shall teach you much more." I took his hand – it was cold. "Come with me." He led me through the grate, and I followed him, still holding onto his cold hand. We descended through the seven levels of the old opera house, finally arriving at a boat. "Sit," he commanded, and for some inexplicable reason, I took a seat in the boat. He stood just behind me, dropping the noose beside me in the boat, and after a moment we began to move across the lake – I looked around, starting to be afraid. What was I doing here?

I heard his chuckle as a large gate came into sight. "Just dawning on you now, is it?" I looked back at him – he was standing, and with the aid of a long pole, he was moving the boat almost gondola-style across the lake. There was a tiny, half-amused smile on his face as he looked at me. "Well?"

I nodded. "I'm your new Christine."

At the name, he grimaced and nearly dropped the pole into the murky water. "I don't care if that is _your_ real name as well – you are Kit and so you shall remain, do you understand? I _never_ want to hear that name again as long as I live." His smile had turned into a frown – his jaw was set and now he stared straight ahead, maneuvering the boat toward the gate. As I looked back ahead, we looked about to crash, but with a hard grinding sound, it rose out of the water, high enough to admit us, water dripping from the bottom. With one deft move, he swept his cape over me, and I heard the water from the gate hit it as we went underneath. As soon as I guessed we were clear – I didn't hear any more water hitting his cape – I went to move it off of me, but he beat me to it. "It would not do to have you soaking," he said when I turned to him. He was wet from the water, and didn't look happy, though it was hard to tell – the mask covered half his expression, and he wasn't looking directly at me.

I was quiet for a moment. "Was the cellar at the school better than this?" I said softly, not wanting to anger him.

He shook his head, still not looking at me. "There are trade-offs. It was less of a hassle to get you for your lessons in London, it's true, but at least here we won't be disturbed by anyone." I could see his teeth clench. "And I won't have to keep you in a trance to convince you it was a dream. You're old enough now to know, little angel." He pulled the pole into the boat, and I felt us stop. He looked at me, another half-amused smile playing across his lips. "Not so little anymore, though – perhaps you're just Kit now, and I'll dispense with the other nonsense." He stepped out of the boat, then turned and held out his hand to me to help me out.

I took it, climbing out. His hand was no warmer than before. "And you? What should I call you?"

He turned away, my hand still in his. "That's not important. More important right now is your lesson." He led me through a curtain, and I gasped, tears springing to my eyes. He turned to me, half-amused, no look of concern. "Is something wrong?"

"I…" I took a deep breath. "I thought her mad…"

His lair was exactly as Christine had described it – with a few small additions, possibly recent. There was a pipe organ in the center of the – I supposed it was what passed for his sitting room – and next to it was a small grand piano. There were small doorways off the main room, covered by curtains, and shattered mirrors around the entire place.

He chuckled quietly next to me. "Oh, she was." He started to lead me over toward the piano.

A million questions flooded my head at once. "You taught me to dance?"

"I did." He sounded proud.

"Where did you learn?"

We arrived at the piano. He motioned for me to stand by it, and he sat on the bench, adjusting so he could reach the pedals. "I never learned. I can't dance myself – I can only aid you in the steps." He played a few notes, then a long string of music. "Now…"

"When did…"

"Child, hold your tongue!" My questions ceased. "There will be time enough. For now let me say I am appalled at your performance tonight. Your dancing was perfect, your acting not bad. But your singing…" He shook his head. "Your singing leaves _much_ to be desired. And this I know much about. I will tutor you to sing. In return, I ask one thing."

"What?" I was shaking, clutching the piano to keep from falling over as my knees knocked. I had a sinking feeling I knew what was coming.

He smiled, his grin wide enough to half disappear underneath the mask he wore. "When the time comes – and I will let you know – you will remain here with me, in this place, for eternity." There was silence for a moment as he let it hang. "Your ancestor – _don't_ say her name – agreed to this, and when the time came, she reneged on the agreement we had made, all because of…_him_." I could hear his teeth grit and his fists clench, though neither physically did. "I will not allow that to happen again."

I swallowed hard. "What would you do if I did the same?"

"I would make you suffer a fate worse than having to suffer here with me – I'd kill everyone you loved in the world above."

I sighed. "And if I said I had no one?"

"Then you have no reason to break our agreement, do you?" I shook my head. "So, Kit, what will it be? Take my lessons and remain here for eternity – or suffer a chorus girl's fate and never be anything more than a dancer?"

His eyes were boring a hole through me. I wanted to say no. I wanted to go back upstairs and back to my warm bed and forget about the Phantom – forget he'd ever offered me this.

And then I remembered my name.

I remembered Etienne's prophesy.

I shuddered. "You have a deal."


	11. Paris: Learn To Fly

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2003**_

He grinned again. "Very well then." Keying a single note – an A – he looked at me. "Sing." I echoed the piano, but he didn't seem satisfied. "No, no." The note stopped, and his frown returned. "As though you were trying to make them hear you eight floors above. You're too soft – I can barely hear you above the piano." He keyed the note again. "Louder." I tried again, and he shook his head. With his free hand, he gestured for me to be louder – I raised the volume a bit more, and at once the music stopped. "Stop, stop!" He was grimacing. "Well, at least I know what the problem is now." I was afraid to speak as he rose from the bench. He paced for a few moments before looking at me. "You _can_ sing – when you're soft. It's when you're _loud_ that the problem occurs." He shook his head. "How to fix this…?"

I looked down at my feet. "Am I awful?" I tried to whisper, but the nature of the lair naturally carried my voice far beyond the tiny space I intended it to occupy – the acoustics down here were amazing. Now I knew why the musical genius lived here.

After a moment, I felt his hand on my chin, lifting my head to look at him. "No, you are not. This can be fixed…I just have to figure out how." Before he could say anything more, I heard a small noise near his leg, and he looked down. "Oh, Ernie…damn you…"

I looked down as well. Ernie – that damn cat – was rubbing up against his pant leg. I smiled. "Ernie!" I looked up at him. "You brought her with you!"

He looked at me. "Well, I had to have _someone_ to keep me company on the journey, didn't I? It's quite uncomfortable traveling that long cramped in that small a space." He bent down and picked up the cat, cuddling her and stroking her coat. "She's very comforting."

That small a space…so he _had_ been traveling in the lavatory of the bus. I felt something inside me – it almost felt like pity, but I knew he wouldn't want that, and so I held my tongue. I held out a hand to pet Ernie. "May I…?" He nodded, and I pet her, feeling her purring.

After a few minutes, he put her down and set her on her way. "She likes to be held every so often or she gets to playing with something or other down here – if I hold her, she goes off to lay down or eat and will generally leave me and my things alone." He sat back down on the piano bench, shaking the cat hair off of his pant leg. "After all, cats are nocturnal – and since she always thinks it's night down here…" He let it hang, and I understood perfectly – he'd been away from the lair so long, he'd forgotten how dark it was. Even now, with so many candles brightly lighting the place, it was still dark enough to pass for night. "Now, let's try again." He keyed the same note, and I sang. He grimaced as I raised the volume, and after a moment made me stop again.

"What?" I said quietly.

He was staring at me, taking me in from head to foot. Then he stood and took me by the shoulders. "Don't move – allow me to move you." He poked and prodded, bent me and straightened me various ways, and after a moment stood back and nodded, pronouncing himself satisfied with a grunt. "All right, let's try again." Without sitting, he keyed the note. "Sing." I opened my mouth, and at full volume released the note – it came out ringing, matching the piano, loud enough that I thought someone outside the lair might hear me. He grinned, looking pleased with himself. "Now _that_ is more like it." Motioning for me to stop, he sat and started to play scales. "You will sing these each night with me – these will be your warm-ups. If you fail to complete one correctly, we shall start from the beginning. You will then sing the selection of music I have chosen for the lesson that night. You will attempt it until I am satisfied with how it sounds." He looked at me, still playing. "If any of this is unacceptable, you'll just have to live with it – you've made your deal with me."

I nodded. "It's fine. Really."

He faltered in his playing, hitting a sour note and looking crossly at the piano. After a moment, he stopped playing altogether and looked at me. "What?"

"I said it's fine."

"I heard you." He rose from the bench. "I'm just not sure I heard you _correctly_."

My knees were knocking. "I…would you like me to speak more…"

"No," he said, his voice dangerously quiet, "that's not the issue. You're not fighting me."

"Should I be?"

He sat back down quickly, apparently struck dumb. After a moment, his expression changed back to normal. "Fine – if you're satisfied with the layout of the lessons, then we'll begin." He swung his feet back underneath the piano and pressed one of the pedals down, starting to play. "Sing exactly as I play – loudly, and don't lose posture. If I have to get back up and adjust you again, I'll be quite cross." I stiffened my back and started to sing as he played, but after a few moments found myself out of breath – even breathing quickly between scales, I couldn't keep up and started to fall behind. He stopped playing and looked at me. "Do we need to begin again?" His hands went for the middle of the piano keyboard, and then he saw I was wheezing. He sighed. "What is the matter?"

"I can't…can't breathe."

He thumped the keys, then sighed again, staring at me. "Aren't you breathing?"

"You're playing too fast for me to breathe in between."

He chuckled – it sounded a bit sardonic. "Well, I will say this – you and your namesake did know how to do at least one thing the same way: bitch." He clucked his tongue. "If I am playing fast, you should be _breathing_ fast. I don't much care if I can hear your breath, so long as you are getting enough of one to sing the next scale in its entirety. If you're not, then you're going to be doing these all night." He glanced at something on the other side of the piano – I couldn't tell what – and cursed softly. "Or not. It's time you returned for tonight." He rose, thumping the keys one last time. "You have wasted your first night's lesson – you could have been singing in the show tomorrow night, but I will make no concerted effort to put you in a lead role until I am certain you are ready. Am I quite clear?"

I nodded. "I'm…"

"If you apologize, I will never again bring you here for another lesson. _Am I clear?!_" I nodded quickly. "Then back to the boat – you will be missed shortly and I will not allow a mob to come after you." He started walking back toward the lake.

"Wait, please!" I begged. He turned, a frown on his face. "I…no one will miss me, and I can do better, I promise."

"Believe it or not, but my world is not yours to command," he said. "I have other things to do – much more important things than teaching some poor little ill-tempered ballerina to sing." He said it so coldly I was forced to choke back ice instead of tears. "My world does not revolve around you, so if you don't mind, child – _back into the boat!_" He gestured with his arm, sweeping toward the lake. He turned and swept his cape about him, stomping off – I followed solemnly. As I climbed into the boat, I noticed a walkway running the length of the other side – I could walk down if I wished to come down without his escort.

When he'd gotten me nearly back upstairs, I opened my mouth with one last question – one he had simply brushed off earlier. "What should I call you?"

He didn't bother to look at me – instead he kept walking up the path, staring straight ahead and hauling me by the wrist. "I told you already, my name is not important."

"But if I'm to stay with you for eternity…"

He stopped and turned now, pulling me close and hissing. "You will know my name when you must. Until then, you will call me nothing. You will stay silent unless I speak to you or tell you to sing or speak, am I clear?" I nodded, afraid. "Fine. Now do shut up – you talk _entirely_ too much." We started up the path again, and I was silent. When we reached the top – the grate in the dorm – I could see the room was still empty. "Go through it and shut it behind you. You are not to come down without my escort, ever. I have a nasty tendency to end the lives of those that try." He grinned – the chilling grin of the murderer – and it sent a shiver up my spine. "I will come for you again – when I feel you are ready." He turned on his heel, and without another word, he left.

I went through the grate and shut it behind me, trying to look through it and see if I could see him, but I couldn't. I leaned against the wall between grate and mirror and cried.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, I visited his lair four more times. When I tried to ask him – the first time – why there had been a delay in my lesson, he simply shushed me and that had been the end of it.

At the end of my fourth lesson – or fifth, even though he only counted it as the fourth – he looked at me. "Fine. You're ready for me to insist upon a lead role." He stood and went to a small table near the organ. "You may go."

"But…"

He turned. "There's a walkway, and you know the way out by now. What are you waiting for?" He turned away.

I looked around, listening to his scribbling. There were books and papers strewn about the place – I picked one up. It looked interesting. There was no title on the front, so I opened the front cover. "Etienne's biography?" I whispered, forgetting my voice carried.

In an instant, the book was torn from my hands. I looked up – his face was furious. "Did I tell you to stay and read or to get out?"

Shaking, I took a deep breath. "Trying to break the curse?"

He grunted, throwing the book aside and walking toward the table. After a moment, my words seemed to sink in, and he stopped mid-step. He turned. "How…how do you know about…?"

"You don't know my last name?" He shook his head. "You know my first name and nickname, but not my last name?" He shook his head again, looking annoyed at having to answer my question a second time. "It's…" I broke off.

"Well?" he said, turning to face me fully.

I started to shake nervously. "Just…please promise you won't get angry. It's not my intention to make you so." He nodded, crossing his arms. I took a deep breath. "My full name's Christine Daaé-Chagny. I'm the last of Etienne's line."

He was still for a moment, his eyes widening. "You're the last?"

I nodded.

He picked up a noose from the table and leapt at me.


	12. Paris: Destiny Found?

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

**

* * *

A/N** – Thanks to csidreamer516 and Saint Raven for their help on this chapter._**

* * *

Paris, France – 2003**_

I ducked out of the way, and he missed me, falling to the ground and growling in rage. Rolling under the piano bench, breathing hard, I watched him recover and look around for me. He spotted me immediately and leapt for me again. Catching both my slender wrists in one of his hands, he pulled me out into the open and held the noose up in front of my face. "Ten seconds to tell me why I shouldn't."

Silently, in my head, I started ticking off seconds. "I…I…"

"_Stop stammering, girl!_"

I felt myself shaking. I knew my time was running out, and by the growing smile on his face, he did as well – and I couldn't think of a good excuse to stop him from strangling me. I spotted the book a few feet away – then looked at him. "If you kill me, you'll never be free. The curse remains if I die."

"How do I know that for certain?" I saw the noose twitch. "Tell me – and honestly – or suffer."

I gulped. How to prove it? "I…I don't know," I said after a moment. "I know the curse talks about another…another one of her…and I share her name…" I broke off. I couldn't think of anything more to say.

He was silent for a moment, staring at me coldly. "I'm not convinced." He lifted the noose, ready to strangle me, still grasping my wrists so I couldn't escape or save myself.

"Please!" I gasped before he could put it around my neck. "Please, just…just wait a minute. The book – Etienne's biography – it must be in there somewhere. If you haven't read it yet, please – please don't do this until you've proven me wrong."

He faltered, froze, then lowered the noose and released my wrists, sighing. "Fine. Where's that accursed book?" He spotted it, and grabbed it. Staring daggers at me, he opened it. "Sit down and don't move."

I sat on the piano bench and watched silently as he started to thumb through the pages, looking for any indication that what I'd said was true. I nervously tapped my knees, hoping he'd find something. I considered running, but since the rest of Christine's stories had turned out to be true, I assumed another was as well – that he was fast enough to catch me before I could even make it halfway to the lake.

After a few minutes, he stopped on a page and read, his eyes darting across lines of text and growing wider as he read. "_Ça c'est trop fort!_" he whispered. He looked up at me. "You…you're…" The book tumbled from his hands as he turned away from me. "_Putain de merde!_ I nearly killed you." He turned back to me, eyes wide in…could it be fear? "I would have killed you and suffered forever like this."

I nodded. "I…" I didn't trust myself to speak, and didn't want to anger him by doing so. He looked at me for another moment, then looked away.

"Well, this certainly changes things now." His voice was quiet, almost emotionless.

"How?"

"I said my world did not revolve around you. I do believe that now it does." He turned back to me and started toward me, walking slowly. "You are the one that is spoken of in his curse – or so it would appear. I suppose…" He sighed, putting his hands on his hips for a moment. "I suppose that means I must accept the world I knew is, indeed, gone. Things are not the same, are they?" He was looking at me strangely – I supposed it was a question that did, in fact, require an answer.

I shook my head, and he sat down on the piano bench next to me, sighing. "The world's changed a lot," I said quietly as he ran a hand through his hair. "A lot of the things you used for threats in the past won't work anymore – no one will be frightened of them, they might just laugh at the notion. In fact, they think you asking for salary was a joke – and I don't think they intend to pay."

"Oh, I know they don't," he said, that half-ironic smile making its way back onto his face. "But I shall have it, one way or another, I assure you." He turned to look at me. "But you…you're more important than I originally thought you were."

"If you didn't think I was important, why bother to teach me back in London?"

He blinked, seemingly unfazed, and answered quietly. "I didn't think Meg should have to suffer with such a burden of a dancer – and you didn't seem to be responding to her teaching. She was quite upset with me, but then, she always was when she found out I was tutoring a girl." He clucked his tongue. "You, that girl Lottie…a few others over the years…oh, there have been at least two dozen or so, I think."

So _he'd_ sent Lottie 'round the twist? I didn't think it possible. "You…tutored Lottie?"

He nodded. "Poor girl…didn't think she'd lose her mind on top of things, but then, I didn't think Meg would break the trance on her – that wasn't supposed to happen." He grinned, leaning toward me and narrowing his eyes slightly. "She caught a glimpse of my face without the mask on when the trance broke. I never kept the mask on in the cellar in London – Meg's used to my face by now. She's had almost a century to get used to it."

I felt my eyes widen. "A century…? You mean Meg…?"

"Oh, come now. You didn't think she was just any old Marguerite Giry, now, did you?"


	13. Paris: Little Wretch of the Shadows

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2003**_

I sat, stunned into silence, as his words sank in. "That's so unbelievable," I said, still trying to make sense of it. Meg was _the_ Meg, not _a_ Meg. She'd been Christine's best friend. "This is…I just…"

"You'll make sense of it in time," he said. "For now, we must find out exactly what Etienne's curse has to do with you and me." Before he said anything more, there was a soft chiming from the other side of the piano, followed by soft mewing from down by his feet. "_Merde_…possibly not." Petting Ernie quickly, he stood. "It's time to get you back where you belong."

As we were walking up one of the passages, I stared at his mask, wondering what lay beneath it that was so hideous that had driven poor Lottie to insanity – and then the rest came flooding back. Meg.

Meg was hiding something – she always had been. I'd ask her about it when I saw her next and could get her to spare a moment alone.

As we neared the grate, I tugged on his hand. He turned to face me. "What is it?"

"What should I call you? Or should I still not know your name?"

He was quiet for a moment, then stopped walking. I followed suit. "She never got the privilege of knowing my name, and I'm not sure you should, either – not until I know you can be trusted."

"I just want to know what you would like me to call you, if anything." I was quiet as he stared at me.

"You are a strange child." I said nothing. "She never asked – she simply called me her Angel without ever having asked what I'd _like_ to be called. As though it were up to her and not me – like I was less than human." He sighed, looking at the ground. "And once she saw my face, I suppose I was."

I felt that pity welling up again, and suppressed it before I spoke. I didn't want to say something stupid and be yelled at for it.

He looked at me again. "You know, perhaps since you asked, I _will_ trust you with my name. But please try to use it as sparingly as you can."

"I…I will." I already knew his name, it was true, but I didn't want to say that – and I wanted to hear him say it.

He paused. "It's Erik."

There was silence for a moment after he said it – I didn't know what to say. Just the way he said it – it sounded so…_pleasant_. Not the type of name the Phantom should have.

Lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I tried to sleep, but my mind was racing in eight different directions. I had to find out Meg's story – what she knew about Erik. I almost wondered if her mother hadn't dodged the curse somehow – had it placed on Meg instead of her, since Meg had never actually been Erik's caretaker.

I turned over and stared at the wall. His mask. What was underneath it? It was obviously enough to have driven poor Lottie insane, and there I had to – albeit against my will – give Christine credit. She had been strong enough to at least keep most of her sanity throughout her ordeal. I hoped I was strong enough to do the same. Sighing and shutting my eyes, I pulled my blankets up a bit higher, listening to Tara's snoring from the bunk above me.

As I was dozing – feeling very heavy and warm – I heard a rustle from across the room. Assuming one of the girls was shifting in her bed, I did the same, trying to get comfortable and doze off again.

"…_Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation…_"

I sat up quickly – and whanged my head on the crossbar of Tara's bunk above me. "Ow, damn it!" The moment I realized I had been loud, I looked around, afraid I would wake people – I was wrong. They were already sitting up in their beds. Erik's voice had woken them – they were looking around, trying to see where the voice could have come from.

I watched their flurry of activity with a sigh of relief. At least his voice hadn't just been in my head.

* * *

It wasn't until almost two weeks later that I caught Meg after rehearsal – she was talking backstage with Toby, but as soon as he saw me approaching he backed away from her and she turned. "Child," she said. "What is it?"

"I have some questions," I said.

She stared at me for a moment. "Get one of the girls to help you. I have work to be done – I must speak with Nichole – this choreography is ridiculous…utterly ridiculous…" She made to leave, but I stepped in front of her.

"It's not about dancing. It's about Erik."

Immediately, her face paled. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. "So…he's finally showed himself, has he?" She paused. "I didn't think he would for awhile yet."

"He's tutoring me to sing, Meg. And…" I stared at her. "And you – you've known all along, haven't you? It was him – they weren't just dreams back in London – he was teaching me every night. He's the reason Lottie was committed…"

"She wasn't."

I paused. "She…she wasn't?"

"No. I helped to get her adopted, child – I couldn't very well let her stay there after what she'd seen. Erik was convinced it was her and took her to train – when I told him it wasn't her he was very upset, but then he found the Christine and thought it might be you." She smiled an ironic half-smile, reminiscent of him. "I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't hear of it. I shrugged it off for awhile – until you were starting to get good at dancing. Then I got worried."

"Why?"

"That little wretch in the shadows of the cellar shouldn't have been able to teach you how to dance."

There was a long pause. "Meg, he…he's lonely. He…"

"No, child – lonely people don't do the things he did so long ago. He murdered people, Kit. You have to remember that – don't pity him, child. He doesn't deserve it."

"The world's been cruel to him."

"And rightly so."

"You were there, Meg. You were one of them."

"I was. I don't regret it." She sighed, but her next words were cut off by a shriek from the stage.


	14. Paris: O G?

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2003**_

We rushed to the stage and found Nichole and J. Pierre reading notes. I spotted the red wax seals on the backs immediately. "Erik," I muttered. "What are you doing?" I took it Nichole was the one who had shrieked by the look on her face. I looked around – half the cast and crew were already on stage, the rest seemed to be rushing on.

"Nicki," J. Pierre said. "Nicki, this…this is ludicrous…"

"What does it say, Jacques?"

He cleared his throat.

_Dear André, the libretto's lacking.  
__Perhaps another's what you seek.  
__You can hardly be blamed for Theodosia's shame –  
__On that note, the girl sings like a diva that's been kept on when she's clearly past her peak!_

She stared at him for a moment. "That's…that's just funny."

He looked at her. "And yours?"

She chuckled. "Oh, you're going to make me? Fine."

_Dear Firmin, quite the brief reminder –  
__My salary's well overdue.  
__Midnight, on the stage – lest you bring my rage.  
__By the way – you'd follow all my orders if you knew at all what was good for you!_

J. Pierre dropped his note as he started laughing. "Let me guess – yours is signed 'O.G.' too, right?" Nichole nodded, and they both laughed even harder.

"Someone's playing at being the Opéra Ghost!" Nichole said. She was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes – she pulled out a lace handkerchief and wiped them away. As they laughed, comparing notes and passing them around to the other cast and crew members to gawk at, another piece of paper floated down from the flies and landed at Nichole's feet.

The stage went eerily silent.

"Who…?" She picked it up warily, looking around. Everyone was onstage – no one in the cast or crew could have possibly dropped the note. There was a quiet, ominous chuckle from nowhere and everywhere at once as she tore the seal and opened Erik's third letter of the day.

Clearing her throat, she read.

_Evidently, my first notes were not enough. I have given you what I thought passed for unmistakable instructions on how my theatre is to be run. Obviously, I must make it painfully clear to you what must be done. _

_Although she had not yet done so,  
__I am anxious that she should succeed.  
__In your new production, you will cast Theodosia  
__in the chorus, and put Miss Chagny in the lead.  
__The lead role requires grace and charm, and these Kit has  
__in no short supply.  
__The chorus requires nothing, and will keep Theodosia  
__out of the public's eye._

_I will also remind you once more that Box Five _will_ remain empty for my use. If these commands are ignored, I will be forced to drastic action.  
__I remain your obedient servant, O.G._

There was exactly thirty seconds of silence, then everyone – except me – started laughing riotously.

I walked off, heading backstage, away from their laughter – it was better to get away before they turned on me and accused me of anything. As I pulled a chair away from the rest of the props and sat down, I heard a rustle of silk from above me. Before I could look up, the sound of fluttering paper was heading toward me, and a note landed in my lap, sealed with red wax. I almost cried out for help – then heard their still-braying laughter from the stage and picked up the letter myself. Tearing the seal carefully, I read the note.

_Kit,  
__You shall have the lead role in the new musical. I will make them see that you are the only one suited to sing the lead here. You will be my diva, and I will give you everything – our destinies are entwined.  
__Erik_

I sat for a moment, entranced by the words on the paper. He'd make me a star – our fates matched, and as much as I wanted to deny it, I couldn't. I had to make the Phantom of the Opera happy.

A smile broke out across my face.

* * *

After dinner, I wandered around the theatre for a bit, exploring – though I thought I felt a pair of eyes on me. Looking about me, I saw no one. Shaking it off as just random paranoia – thanks to Erik I wasn't ever sure I was truly alone anymore – I continued and eventually found myself staring out at the stage from the view of Box Five. I took a deep breath – I was afraid to be here suddenly. I somehow knew Erik wouldn't mind my being here, but it didn't stop me from being afraid. 

I looked to my left and saw a small door concealed behind the curtained edge of the box – no one would have noticed it without standing right where I was. I moved slightly to either side and it disappeared from view. Walking toward it, I pulled the curtain back and grasped the door handle gently…

…And another hand closed on my wrist before I could open the door.


	15. Paris: Implacable

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2003**_

I nearly shrieked, afraid Erik had come to do me in for invading Box Five – and then my senses returned to me. He wouldn't do such a thing – not after the notes he'd sent. I looked over at the person that had hold of my wrist. "T…Toby?"

His eyes were narrowed, and he wrenched my hand off the handle and started dragging me out of the box. "You shouldn't be here."

"Toby, he…"

He turned to me, stopping as we reached the stairs to descend to the mezzanine. "Listen, Kit, before you even finish that sentence. If you for one second think that Erik doesn't mind you in there, trust me, he does. He sent me up there to get you out." His gaze was cold – like Erik's – only this was Toby I was staring at. I wasn't used to it. "I saw him, up in the flies. I went to him – he told me you were in Box Five, and would I please go and get you out of it? He didn't want to frighten you – I didn't bother asking why, he doesn't mind scaring the hell out of the rest of us – but I came to fetch you anyway. Stay out of that box if you know what's good for you – Erik gave you one pass, I don't think he'll give you another." He dragged me down the stairs and into the lobby, hauling me backstage and then walking off.

I rubbed my wrist where he'd grabbed me – there was a red mark and I could see a distinct handprint. Before I could walk off to bitch at him, I heard a noise from one of the offices – Nichole's. Backing up quietly, I peeked inside – Nichole, J. Pierre, Sean, Theodosia, Meg, and Eliot were all inside, all talking at once.

"All right, shut up!" Nichole yelled. The talking ceased immediately. "Listen, Tay, we're not taking orders from…whoever the hell this is." She threw one of Erik's notes onto her desk. "You're still singing the lead in Jacques' musical."

Theodosia banged the desk. "Not good enough! I want a raise!"

The managers shared a look. "What?" J. Pierre said.

"I want a raise for having to put up with this bull! This is not funny – yet someone thinks I will stand aside and let that little brat take my place. I haven't sung the lead without being interrupted but once – the first little thing we performed here without a chorus that you lost money on!" She laughed ironically. "And no one got paid for it. I want a raise for this!"

Eliot shuffled his feet. "Me…me too. Tay's right."

Sean looked back and forth between them. "You two are ridiculous. I think we ought to give her another chance." I smiled. "But just one. If she screws up again, that's the end of it, and we don't hear another word about Kit singing anything – chorus or lead. She's a dancer if she screws up again, period, end of story."

I felt my hands curling into fists. Raoul my ass – Raoul had fawned over Christine. He was no Raoul – he wasn't even Piangi, for crying out loud – he hadn't had a successful lead role yet!

Nichole nodded toward Meg, sighing. "What do you think?"

"I'm with Sean. Let's give her a chance. Even if you think the notes are a joke, I don't. There are too many coincidences here, Nichole – wouldn't you agree?"

She nodded, and everyone cast their eyes to the floor. "Yeah," Nichole said. "Too many coincidences, and as much as I'm trying to ignore them, I don't think I can anymore. I think we've got ourselves a real, live Opéra Ghost." She sighed. "But that doesn't change my mind, Meg. I'm not taking orders from him. Tay's playing the lead in _A Place on Earth_ and that's the end of it. We'll give Kit a minor singing position – chorus, I think – and maybe that'll placate _le fils d'une chienne_." There were several laughs, and I was grateful to hear that Meg's was not among them.

I walked away as they started to file out, pretending I had heard nothing. Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I turned – it was Sean. "Hey," he said. "How…how are you doing?"

I wanted to slap him badly. "Not bad. You?"

He nodded. "I think I'm playing the actual lead this time, not Eliot's stand-in." He looked over his shoulder at Eliot.

I heard something creak overhead – but before I could open my mouth, a dozen or so loose cords and wires, all heavy-looking, came tumbling from the rafters and nearly hit Theodosia and Eliot. They dodged in time – Sean hauled me out of harm's way – and from nowhere and everywhere, a voice cried: "_Alors, c'est pour être la guerre entre nous!_"

I clung to Sean's shirt as he patted my back. The managers looked stunned – I looked over at Meg. She was wide-eyed in terror. "Not this again."

* * *

Rehearsals for J. Pierre's musical went surprisingly uninterrupted by Erik. The first day of rehearsal, Freya decided to test my voice to see which part would be best suited for me. The moment I opened my mouth and belted one of Theodosia's solos, the entire cast went silent. "Holy…" Freya said when I'd finished. "Where did you…who taught you to sing?!"

I stared at her. Did I dare to tell the truth? They wouldn't believe me if I did – I knew that for a fact already – but I also knew if I took the sole credit for my newfound singing talent, Erik would be displeased. I stared at her for another moment, then shrugged my shoulders. "A ghost," I said, a tiny grin on my face.

She nodded, one starting on hers. "Ah," she said. "Too modest to admit it." She looked at Nichole. "This girl deserves the lead, Nicki – I've got to be honest with you – her voice is really good." Somewhere upstage, Theodosia started pitching a whining fit, but I didn't care.

I looked over at Nichole as she was shaking her head. "No," she said. "This girl goes in the chorus, Freya – just stick her in with the other sopranos." As Nichole walked away, I could have sworn I heard a soft jingling from the auditorium.

During one of the rehearsals, the lunch break turned into a game of "toss the prop" – and eventually, one of the beach balls we were using rolled off the stage and into the auditorium. Since I wasn't busy, I hopped off the stage and went up the aisle to get it – it had lodged itself in one of the seats – and as I was heading back, I looked up at the ceiling. "Wow," I breathed.

Not having noticed before, I now saw what I'd missed. While it wasn't impressive, the ceiling was finely detailed with patterns – not painted. As I looked up over the orchestra pit, I saw the one thing missing from the mix – the famed chandelier, restored and polished, and refurbished with electric lights. It sat just in front of the proscenium – there was no way Erik could swing it onto the stage if he tried. If he dropped it, it was going into the orchestra pit, no question of it.

I stood backstage on opening night of the musical, biting my nails. Erik was displeased, I could tell, though I hadn't seen him in at least a month. Something in the air felt…off. No one else seemed to notice, though – not even Meg. She was happily bustling the girls to their spots, yelling at them when they didn't pay attention and yelling at me to pay attention as well. I could hear the audience through the curtain – they seemed to like what Erik had done last time – I just simply hoped he didn't do the same this time.

When the curtain rose, and the play began, the butterflies in my stomach settled. I could feel someone's eyes watching me from Box Five. When I had a moment and was facing the correct way, I chanced a glance up toward it – it was full. They'd sold Box Five's seats.

My heart started pounding hard. As Theodosia took the spotlight for her third solo, I crossed my fingers, hoping nothing would happen tonight. She started singing – the audience went silent, although I could feel my ears start to plug to keep from bleeding. She hit a high note…and her microphone went dead. I grinned inwardly – maybe technical difficulties weren't bad after all.

My joy was short-lived. Theodosia tried to belt to the back of the auditorium, but she stopped after one try – she knew she couldn't. As the audience started to get anxious, there was a loud jingle from overhead. Then…

"_Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?!_"


	16. Paris: Against All Odds

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2003**_

There was silence onstage at Erik's words. While I wasn't terrified – he probably wouldn't hurt me – I was a bit nervous for the others. I crossed my fingers – if Nichole would just come onstage and put me in the lead, maybe he'd be placated and be quiet…

I heard Theodosia's microphone spring back to life over the speakers, and she motioned to Freya to start the song over. Freya cued the orchestra and began the song again – Theodosia opened her mouth and sang.

But after a moment, one of the instruments – a violin – hit a sour note.

Then a flute followed suit, and the two were playing in disharmony to the rest of the orchestra. Then two more instruments fell out of tune – and little by little, the song went sour. Theodosia looked ready to cry as the orchestra stopped playing for a second time and started to tune their instruments.

Margery sidled over to me nonchalantly. "What the bleeding hell is going on?"

"It's…"

Theodosia whipped around and stared at me, pointing an accusatory finger directly at my nose. "You shut up! Little toad, I'll make your life hell if you speak again!" She was loud, and I heard some of the audience go silent. After a moment, they seemed to think it was an act – that all of it was an act. They started laughing. Theodosia turned toward them and bowed.

Out of nowhere and everywhere, surrounding us… "_A toad, madame? Well, if you insist…_" The audience went silent again, and now I started to tremble.

After a few moments, Freya cued the orchestra again, and Theodosia began the song from the beginning for the third time. She sang through the first verse with no trouble, a smile on her face.

Then I heard a full-throated croak from the flies. As I looked up, above her, a dozen toads fell from the rafters and onto her head, tumbling to the stage, all croaking. She screamed and started running for the wings – most of the cast followed her, and the curtain was brought in, the toads still wandering about. Cendrine – stepping over the still-croaking little guys – went out past the curtain and announced that intermission was extended to thirty minutes instead of the usual twenty because of technical difficulties. I looked around – people from the main cast and the chorus were staring at me. Still trembling, I made for the roof, hurrying up the stairs as fast as I could – I needed to get away from them, away from those looks, away from the croaking, away from Erik's mayhem.

I burst onto the roof, taking a breath of fresh air – albeit cold fresh air. I hugged myself, rubbing my arms – if I'd thought it would be this cold, I would have thought better of coming up to the roof. I looked around – there was a statue near the middle of the roof, and some various outcroppings on the side of the building near the door – where I was now standing. I headed for the edge of the roof, just to look.

Before I reached the middle of the roof, I heard footsteps behind me and turned. Sean bolted through the still-open roof door, panting and staring at me. "Sean?" I said, puzzled.

"All right," he said, coming toward me. "What was _that_ all about onstage? Toads and microphones dying and…good grief, Kit, someone really wants you in that role." He looked around. "What's going on here? Do you have a stalker or something and you're not telling me?" He took me by the shoulders and made me look at him. "Is…is someone stalking you, Kit?"

I shook him off of me. "No, Sean, I don't have a stalker, all right? Now go away – I came up here to be alone." I shivered, and heard him start to take off his jacket as I turned away.

"You're freezing." I felt his jacket touch my shoulders, and shrugged it off.

"Leave me alone."

"Kit, I…" He sighed as I turned my back to him. "I don't think you're safe here. I'm going to quit this place if I can – if you let me – take you back to London…" There was silence for a moment. "We could – you know – we could get married…"

I spun around to face him. "What?! Me, marry you? After all you've done to me here? Verbally bashed me in front of everyone?"

"Well, I have appearances to keep up…"

"That's no excuse. What if Greg could see you?" He was silent, and after a moment, he hung his head in shame. "That's what I thought. Now, Sean, go away and leave me be." I heard him sigh, felt his jacket lift from my shoulders, and heard him start for the door.

"You know," his voice came from the doorway, "you're going to be very sorry someday, Kit, when it turns out that this Phantom of yours is entirely a myth – and I'll be happily married with children by the time you even decide to acknowledge that, if you ever do." I heard his footsteps go back inside, and he slammed the door shut. I sighed – then I realized what he'd done. I ran over and twisted the doorknob – it was locked. I was locked out. I slumped down against the side of the building and started to cry. How could he be so cruel – after what Greg had made him promise to do, he pulled this? I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, but it did no good.

I felt a hand touching mine, trying to make me take a handkerchief. I pushed it away, assuming Sean had come back to bug me a little more. The hand grew insistent, trying to push the handkerchief gently but firmly into mine – I pushed it away again and looked up, ready to tell him off. I gasped and tried to jump back a little, but the wall stopped me. "Erik," I said. "You…"

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said quietly, staring at me, the handkerchief still clutched in his hand.

"You didn't. I…I was just expecting…"

"That boy?" He gritted his teeth. "A myth…bah! If they don't put you in after intermission, I'll show _him_ who the myth really is…" He had looked away from me, but now looked back and tried to hand me the handkerchief again. "Here, take it and dry your tears. If you cry, you shan't be able to sing, and what shall I do then? I've worked very hard and will work harder still to get you on that stage in that lead role tonight – if you cry your voice should be shaky."

I took the handkerchief from him. He was right – I had to stop crying. I dried my tears, taking a few deep breaths as I did. "I feel better now," I said. I held out the handkerchief to him, but he refused to take it.

"No, no, you keep it." I tucked it into my sleeve – I had no pockets. He stood and offered me a hand. I took it and he helped me to my feet. "You will be ready, now, when it is time for you to go back onstage in the lead? Yes?" I nodded, and before I could stop myself, I shivered. I hadn't wanted to do that in front of him. Immediately, his expression changed – he'd been serious, but I saw a flicker of concern flash through his eyes. "You're freezing, aren't you?" When I nodded – I had to be honest with him, he'd know the truth anyway – he pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around me.

"Erik, you don't have…"

"Hush." It was long on me, but he pulled it tight about me and motioned for me to hold it tightly. "Little warmer now?" I looked at him and nodded. "Good. Don't worry about returning it – I'll fetch it quietly when I want it." He stroked my cheek and nearly smiled – then seemed to realize what he was doing and stopped. "Uh…" He cleared his throat. "Yes, well…now then, I'll uh…I'll go start getting them to cave and readying your role for you." He started to turn away – and I remembered the door.

"Erik, wait!"

He turned back, that glimmer of concern flashing through his eyes again. "What is it?"

"The…the door…" I motioned to it. "It's locked. I can't get back in."

He looked at the door, paused – then a half-ironic smile, a small one, broke out on his face. "It's not locked. It just takes a firm hand when it's been slammed shut." Walking over, he twisted the knob with one hand and pounded his other fist into the door just above the knob. With a small pop, the door opened. "There. Now go on – go get ready."

Before I walked inside, I pulled off his cloak and handed it to him. He stared at me, puzzled. "You're just not the Phantom without your cloak, too. It makes the outfit."

"Really?" he said quietly, his eyes narrowing. "I always thought it was _this_ that did it." He motioned toward his mask.

I bowed my head. "Well, yes, that too – but I can't hear your mask billowing out behind you as you run through the flies. That's how I know the footsteps are yours and not someone else's."

He made me look at him – his eyes had returned to normal, no narrowing or anger flashing through them now. "You…you're _comforted_ by my presence, then? Not terrified?"

"I could be terrified, if you wanted me to be."

"Kit, just answer me." It was…pleading. He was pleading with me.

Startled, I nodded. "Yes, I…you comfort me. You're the only person here who doesn't make fun of me on a constant basis for believing you're real – or Meg. Meg doesn't make fun of me, she just doesn't want you around me, I know it."

"Well, Meg will just have to step off this time, won't she?" I nodded as he looked about ready to smile. "She helped to make me miserable the first time – I won't let her win again." He sighed, the ready-to-grin look disappearing. "I thought tonight would be history repeating when I saw you emerge, and then I saw him – and against all odds, you threw him away. The handsome man didn't win you." He cocked his head to the side. "Why?"

I stared at him for a moment. "Because he's a jerk. He's never deserved me and he never will."

"And do I?"

My heart skipped half a beat. "What?"

He seemed to realize his question had shocked me. "I'm sorry, I…I put that badly. You know our futures – our destinies, as it were – are supposedly entwined. What I'm asking you is if you believe it – do you believe what the prophecy says about us?"

Considering I only knew half of Etienne's prophecy, I blinked and paused – then dared. "I don't know the whole thing. My parents died before they let me in on everything and Meg's hidden it from me."

He took a deep breath. "All right, then I'll tell you – but not now." He glanced around. "You need to get back downstairs and get ready – I'll get them to put you in the lead if it takes me all night." He put on his cloak and started to walk away, then turned back to me and kissed my forehead. "_Merde, ma chérie._" Then he shut the door, leaving me inside.

I stood utterly still for a moment, my head reeling. He'd kissed me – granted, it wasn't on the lips, but a kiss was a kiss. I finally got my feet to work and raced back to the stage.

Nichole was screaming that she'd never put me in the lead – she didn't care how good I claimed to be or who it was that was supposedly sponsoring me, I wasn't going in the lead role and that was final. As the curtain opened again after intermission – toads cleared and released outside – Theodosia was still singing in the lead role and I was still in the chorus. There were minor distractions from Erik that the audience again thought were part of the act. Theodosia's microphone kept shorting out – though I think that was more Toby's idea than Erik's. Her wig caught fire – I saw the match fall from the flies, though I don't think anyone else did. At one point, even Sean fell victim to Erik's wrath – during his duet with Theodosia, Erik dumped what must have been two dozen liters of water on them. Standing in the wings at the time, I could giggle – served him right for crossing Erik's girl.

Then I chided myself. I wasn't Erik's girl.

Was I? I shook myself – in a way, I was. He had tutored me to sing and was now doing what he could to ensure that I would be heard – much like a devoted boyfriend would do the same for his girl. I looked up into the flies – I could barely see Toby's shadow…and with him, another figure, a bit wider with the cloak – Erik. I smiled as I saw his head tilt down and look at me.

When the performance continued – after Theodosia and Sean had dried off – Nichole still refused to put me in the lead. As we began the extremely long final number, I heard a booming voice – though I knew he was in the flies with Toby now, his voice still seemed to be in each and every part of the theatre at once.

"_Put Christine Daaé-Chagny in the lead – as I've been telling you to do all night – or suffer!_" He sounded pissed, and I couldn't blame him – he'd been ignored all night.

Theodosia – while the music was still silent – simply laughed. "Oh, shut the hell up, whoever you are!"

I heard him seethe, and though I was center stage I swore I heard his footsteps leave the flies in a hurry. As the orchestra started up again, we started the final number again. After a moment, we heard a soft jingle, but paid it no heed – the chandelier sometimes did that when a draft hit it just right.

But then there was another jingle – louder this time. Some of the chorus members – myself included – stopped and looked out into the auditorium at the chandelier. It was swinging. "Erik," I whispered, "oh, God, no." The rest of the company was still performing.

With the third jingle, the rest stopped – and the orchestra followed suit. Freya had looked up. "What the…?" There was an extremely loud crack – like the ceiling was caving in – and the chandelier started to fall. "_Abandon the pit!_" The orchestra members – some abandoning their instruments – started bailing from the pit. Freya grabbed Kerstin from the piano and both hopped onto the stage with my help, then we three dashed upstage toward the wings. The rest of the company and most of the orchestra were following us.

And over all of this, I heard the audience applauding.

I dared a look back, and I was sorry I did. As I turned, the chandelier smashed into the pit, taking the orchestra members who hadn't yet made it to safety – twenty in all – with it. The applause from the audience stopped and was replaced with screams. Some of the company was screaming as well.

I felt a pair of arms around me, leading me toward the dorms – I realized I was crying. "Hush, Kit, hush now. It's all right now. You're safe." I looked up at the person – Meg. "You're safe now."

"Why would he do that?"

Leading me not through the dormitory door, but into her own bedroom, she sat me down on the edge of her bed. "For you, child."

"But…"

"Whether you asked for this or not, this is your destiny – to marry the murderer." She stared at me, then pulled his handkerchief from my sleeve. I hadn't realized it was still there. "And now you see, child – he is nothing more than a murderer. His love is the kiss of death. You will never have the lead now – not in anything – he has ruined that for you by what he did tonight." She rose from the bed and started out of the room. "Now lay down – I'll bring your things in here for tonight. You'll want to stay here, trust me – you don't want to be around them when your name was the last one uttered before twenty people were killed." She turned and looked at me, the door half-shut. "Kit – he's a murderer and does not deserve love or peace of mind. He deserves to suffer." Then she shut the door and left.

I looked at his handkerchief – she'd left it lying on the bed. Picking it up, I turned it over in my hands. I lay back on the bed, kicking my shoes off. A murderer – true, he was and I'd already known that. Buquet and Piangi hadn't been far from my mind since I'd arrived here, and now he'd done in twenty more people in one blow. But still – tonight's disaster left me wondering. He couldn't possibly have meant to kill those people. The orchestra had nothing to do with Nichole's stubbornness about putting me in the role, so why kill them? Perhaps he'd just misjudged the distance and figured everyone had enough time to get out. A murderer – perhaps in 1870, he had been, but it would take more than that disaster tonight to convince me.

And he shouldn't be loved… "Too late," I whispered, my ears not believing what they were hearing from my mouth. "I love him."

From somewhere, eight floors down, I thought I heard a joyous laugh.


	17. Paris: Masquerade

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

_I sing  
__again with you  
__our strange  
__duet…  
__Your power  
__over me  
__grows stronger  
__yet…_

_And though  
__I turn from you,  
__to glance  
__behind,  
__I know the Phantom of the Opera  
__is there –  
__inside my mind…_

Two months passed – two lonely months of employment limbo which started the night of the chandelier crash. I wasn't sure if I was a dancer or a regular chorus singer – Nichole cast me with frightening indifference as to my voice part so that once I actually ended up over in the baritone section, and after six hours of "this isn't my voice range," she finally got tired and shuffled me back in with the dancers. I longed for Erik to straighten her out – a bit of mayhem would do the theatre good.

But through three plays, he stayed silent.

I did my job – dancing or singing, whichever I was told – as though he were still watching from Box Five each time, although I knew with them selling the seats it would be impossible for him to be there. Somehow or other I could still feel him – his eyes on me – although I hadn't spoken with him or even heard his voice since that awful night.

Just after New Year's, Nichole and J. Pierre decided to throw an old-fashioned masquerade ball – in, of course, the spirit of the New Year and in the spirit of the Opéra Populaire. When Meg told me, it took everything I had not to scream.

"You're not serious?" I could feel my eyes popping.

"Of course I am." She was busy picking a costume from backstage at the time. "Hmm…maybe I'll go as my mother…yes, yes, Antoinette Giry will walk again at this party." She grinned, pulling a simple black dress from one of the clothes racks. "What do you think?"

"I think this is _ludicrous_! It's preposterous and ridiculous and…and…it's madness!" I was pacing, agitated. "A masquerade ball – what are you people thinking?"

But my words didn't get through to her. The ball went on as planned. Someone suggested I dress as Christine Daaé – a notion I turned down at least sixteen times but was somehow shanghaied into anyway. I showed up in a blue ball gown and a red cloak – a replica of one of Christine's costumes from Webber's play, from the graveyard scene. As I looked around, I spotted Sean – and his costume nearly made me heave. "Oh, no. No, no – Sean, no." He was walking toward me, a grin on his face.

He was wearing a replica of Raoul's costume from Webber's play as well – the costume from the masquerade ball scene. "Well," he said, reaching me, "we match, don't we?" Offering me one arm, he gestured to the rest of the room with the other. "Shall we?"

I pushed his arm away. "Go away. I'm sitting down and not moving – I'm only here because Margery and Meg insisted I come. Now leave me alone." As I walked past him, toward an empty table, I heard Nichole stop the music and bellow from the top of the stairs.

"Well, since we're doing this on the same staircase, why don't we make it fun? Let's do a rendition of 'Masquerade' from Webber's play!" There was a general murmur of agreement from the assemblage as I sank down into my chair, and I put my head into my arms on the table. Were they _trying_ to call Erik out of hiding? Give the man a beacon, for crying out loud – they might as well just have me sing and be done with it. I listened as Nichole and J. Pierre started assigning parts, and wasn't at all surprised when they told Theodosia to sing Christine's part. They gave Carlotta's to some random chorus girl – I was given nothing, so I stayed seated as they started and watched.

Sure enough, when it came time for Theodosia to sing, I wanted to gouge her eyes out with a spoon. She was horrible – they should have let her sing Carlotta. That and the fact that she was dressed as a giant chicken didn't help. I giggled softly – a toad would have been a better choice for her, after what Erik had done.

As the music reached the final verse – since Webber had incorporated what I'd come to call "Erik's Theme" into it – Freya and the orchestra started to play that. I heard gasps and screams and assumed people were still in character. Then I looked up on the stairs – and giggled. "You know, I'd yell 'I told you so,' but it just doesn't go far enough," I whispered to myself.

Erik was standing at the top of the stairs.

He was wearing his usual – black suit, white lace cravat, black gloves, black cloak, and his white half-mask. He started down the steps, and I noticed there was a sword hanging from his waist. As he came upon Nichole, he started clucking his tongue. "I'm surprised…well, all right, I confess it. I'm not." He laughed – an ironic one I was tempted to mimic. "That girl is no Christine Daaé. And I should know."

Even from as far away as I was, I saw Nichole's eyes widen. "You…it's you!"

Erik nodded. "Yes."

"And you…" She finally cracked and started laughing. "And you thought you'd join us and actually _dress up_ like the Phantom of the Opera?"

Erik's hand went inside his cloak. "This is how I always dress, Madame. I wasn't about to change it, seeing as how I'm practically a celebrity now on this holiday you all call Hallowe'en." As Nichole silenced, Erik pulled a stack of paper from inside his cloak and threw it on the floor in front of her feet. "That, _madames et messieurs_, is your next musical."

J. Pierre pushed Nichole aside and stared at Erik. "Who are you to tell us…?"

Erik walked closer to them, and the two managers backed up. "I am the Opéra Ghost. You _will_ obey my orders this time – after all, there are worse things than a shattered chandelier." He chuckled menacingly. "Now, one last thing…" He backed up, heading toward the stairs, his hand now on the hilt of the sword. He looked over to me, and his free hand beckoned me toward him.

Without a sound, without hesitation, I rose from my chair and walked toward him. The crowd parted to let me through, and I walked up the stairs toward him – until Meg grabbed my arm. "No," she said, as the assemblage started to gasp and twitter. "You won't have her." I tried to pull free, but Meg had a good grip on my arm. "She's staying here, and that's final."

He walked down the stairs, drawing the sword and pointing it at Meg. "How _dare_ you think you can deprive me of her?"

She stood her ground, still holding my arm. "You won't hurt me."

I looked back and forth between them, wide-eyed – the sword was nearly pointing at me. "Can you let go of me now, Meg?"


	18. Paris: All For Her

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

Erik's eyes were burning through Meg. "Let her go or so help me…"

"You'll do what? Run me through?" She tossed her head – several graying strands fell out of place. "You wouldn't dare." I tried to twist free again, but she wasn't having it.

He stared at her a moment more, then replaced the sword in its sheath. "Fine. You win – for now." He walked back up the stairs to the fork in the center, then turned back to Meg and me, grinning widely. "But I'll be back for her, Marguerite Giry. Count on that." There was a loud crack and a puff of smoke billowed from where he was standing, surrounding him and blinding us. When it had cleared, and we could look back, he had gone.

As the party broke up – everyone going their separate ways, and Nichole and J. Pierre thumbing through Erik's musical – Meg finally released my arm. "Well, Kit – now you know just how impulsive and reckless he is." She started off up the stairs – I assumed she was heading for her room.

I stood for a moment and watched her leave, then I looked around. People were shaken, scared – I didn't blame them. I would have been, too, if I'd been in their place – but I'd known Erik wouldn't hurt me. I'd felt…safe…when he'd beckoned to me. As though he were going to take me with him – take me away from here – though I knew it to be a lie. Then it hit me. He'd backed down from the fight – he _never_ backed down from a fight…right? My fists clenched.

What was that woman hiding?

I stomped off toward the dorms, shoving Sean out of the way as he tried to stop me.

* * *

I didn't see Meg for a couple of days. As I was searching the theatre for her the third day after the party, I passed Nichole's office, peeking inside to see if she was there, by some chance. Inside I saw Nichole and another man – from Nichole's description and the picture on her wall, I guessed it was her older brother, the theatre's patron, Narcisse Firmin. I stopped, listening to their conversation.

"Yes, yes, Nicki – I understand your _dire_ financial need, but why this play?" There was the sound of something heavy being dropped onto…her desk, perhaps. "It's utter _dreck_, this libretto. _Unspoken Secrets_ nothing – the entire play is nothing but metaphorical sexual references. You could find a much better musical. So why the sudden fanatical obsession with this one?"

Nichole sighed. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Tell me and then I'll decide what to believe and what not to."

Another sigh. "All right." A moment of silence. "You know, actually, can we not talk about this right now? Lily's wedding – tell me about it."

Now there was a male sigh – Narcisse – and the sound of leather squeaking as he must have reclined slightly in the chair. "Ah, our little sister. _Trés belle_, she was. And her husband…" I started away – their family didn't concern me.

Erik's play – how dare they call it dreck? I'd been lucky enough to snatch away a copy – there was nothing wrong with it. Except of course, that it was the musical version of _Don Juan Triumphant_. I headed for the stage – perhaps I'd find Meg hiding there.


	19. Paris: Sing To Life, Part 1

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

_**Erik**_

They were hurrying about, like each had somewhere important to be. I smiled, one hand on the rail – finally, she'd sing. She'd be heard. It would be glorious. And the credit would be mine for training her. Of course, she would be praised – she would have to be praised if she did well enough – but her voice belonged to me.

The smile froze on my face, and died shortly thereafter. That kind of thinking couldn't be tolerated anymore – not after what had happened with _her_. My hand gripped the rail hard, imagining it to be _his_ neck – then I released the rail and sighed. To dwell in the past would make a fool of me. Kit needed me here and now to aid her through this.

I watched Kerstin and Freya in the orchestra pit. Surprising I could see them from here. I watched the orchestra tuning for a moment, feeling sorry. Twenty people in one blow – I had not meant for it to happen – I had thought there was more time, more distance, but I had been wrong and twenty people had paid the price for my miscalculation. "A fool," I whispered. "Too close to the proscenium so the Phantom could not use it again…you ought to have known not to touch it, Erik."

I thought of running back down into the cellars – what must Kit have thought of me that night? And yet… I smiled. And yet I'd hidden near Meg's room and heard her admission – she loved me.

Reciprocated this time. I'd thought it impossible, but perhaps not.

I heard footsteps approaching and let the smile die. Turning toward them, I reached my free hand into my cloak, just in case – but it was only Toby. "I didn't startle you, Erik, did I?" he said, cocking his head to one side.

I relaxed. Best not to let him see me agitated. "No, you didn't."

"You don't usually reach your hand for the Lasso unless you're intending to use it – hence, startled."

"You pulled me from a very nice thought, Tobias." I glowered at him for a moment, and he turned away to watch the dancers assemble onstage. I stared at Meg for a moment.

Marguerite Giry – that impossible woman would rob me of my very soul if she could, I was certain of it. She'd give anything to have me remain a prisoner of the curse – trapped forever, never able to rest – eternal punishment for which by now I've more than paid my share.

"Something wrong, Erik? You don't usually stare at Meg that way."

"What way?"

"Like you're going to drop down and kill her."

Oh, how I wanted to! – but what would Kit think of me? An impossible situation, truly – on the one hand, I could satisfy my desire to make Meg pay by dropping to the stage and wrapping the Lasso around her neck, choking her – but would it work? On the other hand, if Kit should see me strangling her guardian – the only person left to look out for her other than myself now – what would she do? Certainly, further love and romance was out of the question. I sighed. "I can't."

"Why not?"

I chuckled – my usual ironic one. "Oh, how loaded a question, my friend. Where would you like me to begin?"

After a few minutes of watching the flurry of activity below in silence, he turned to me. "I've meant to ask you for awhile now – did they ever start paying your salary?"

I grinned. "A few months back. Someone did, anyway."

"As much as you requested?"

"Yes. There would have been hell to pay if they'd shortchanged me and I think you know that." I looked at him sidelong – he was nodding.

"Hey, Erik?"

"What?" I sighed – the boy was a good friend and ally, I'd be the first to admit, but silent he wasn't.

"Why _do_ you wear that mask?"

I turned to him. "You grew up in France – hell, in _Paris_ – and you don't know why I wear my mask?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't. And actually, François just said we were from Paris to make it sound fun. I'm actually from Rouen." He cocked his head to the side again. "Which, if I'm not entirely mistaken, is where _you're_ from as well."

I took a deep breath. "You know that – but not what's under my mask." He shook his head. "Tobias, _mon ami_, _tu es un idiot_." I turned back to the stage as I heard Kerstin's voice from the pit.

"Hey, Freya, you will _never_ believe what I found!"

"What?" she answered the impatient pianist.

Instead of answering, Kerstin began to play a song I hadn't heard in over a century. I gasped as my vision changed.

The stage went bare – all the modern accoutrements and crew disappeared from view, and in their place stood a young woman of sixteen, dressed in Elissa's costume from _Hannibal_. I couldn't breathe. "Christine," I whispered.

As the song played, I could hear her voice – clear and pure – ringing out across the theatre. I remembered how hard I'd worked to make her ready for the role – every night for more than two years we'd rehearsed and trained her voice, and finally she'd been ready when Carlotta had to…suddenly take her leave of absence. I smiled… "So beautiful…my Angel…"

I could see an audience now – a standing ovation was apparently in order for my once-beautiful diva. And then…from a box…I heard _his_ voice. My hands – both of them – gripped the rails of the walkway I stood on, and it took all the self-control I possessed not to jump off and grab Christine from the stage. I relaxed as she melted into the final verse and the cadenza. "Come on, my Angel…you can do it…"

Her mouth opened wide, and slowly she belted the cadenza to the rear of the theatre. Another standing ovation – she took a bow or seven…

…And the modern-day cast and crew reappeared in her place, an aged Meg Giry standing where my once-beautiful singing angel had been only moments before. I fell to my knees on the walkway. Toby knelt down by me. "Erik? Erik! What's wrong?"

I felt hot tears in my eyes and blinked them back – the Phantom didn't cry…at least not in front of other people. It would kill my image. "That…that song…what's wrong with me?"

"I don't know. I just asked you that."

"I saw Christine singing." I looked up at his face. "I miss her, but…but Kit needs me."

"Kit _loves_ you."

"I know that."

"Then give up on the Christine thing." I grabbed him by the throat. "Sorry," he choked out, "didn't mean to…say her…name…" I released him – he rubbed his neck. "You grab hard. But listen – give up on that. You live in the past, it'll kill you. You told me about that curse – apparently you need Kit to break it, right?" I nodded. "Then go to her. If you love her, and she loves you back this time…" He shrugged. "Makes sense to me that you two oughta be together."

I pushed myself to my feet. "You're wiser than you think, Toby." I looked at his belt as his walkie-talkie crackled to life – he pushed the button and waved to me as he ran off.

"See you later, Erik!"

I turned back to the stage. Out in the auditorium – in one of the aisles, standing near the orchestra pit – I saw Christine. I blinked, but she didn't go away. "I'm sorry, Erik." Her voice was ghostly, haunting. "I'm so sorry."

"It's done, Christine."

"I never meant to break your heart."

"But you know you did when you went with him."

She hung her head. "I'm so sorry."

"And then your son cursed me to live until I find love."

"I know."

I shook my head. "I…why am I talking to you? You're dead – you're not real and I'm not living in the past anymore. Kit needs me."

Christine stared at me as Raoul joined her. "I need you, Erik."

"You're dead. You need to leave me alone."

"Erik, I l…"

I held up a hand. "If you finish that sentence, so help me, I will find you in the afterlife and make you regret it." The words seemed to die in her throat. "You love _him_, that little bastard next to you. Now leave me be, Christine. I'm done with you – I was done with you almost eighty years ago – let me forget about you entirely and focus on the woman carrying your blood and name that _does_ actually love me."

She stared at me, silent for a moment, then spoke again. "Then goodbye, my Angel of Music." She disappeared, and I thought Raoul would as well, but he had to open his mouth.

"I win again, eh, old boy?" I picked up the first thing I could grab – a roll of black gaffer's tape, it seemed to be – and threw it in a blind rage toward him. It hit him squarely between the eyes – but, being incorporeal, it went right through him. He laughed. "You always were a bit slow, Erik." Still laughing, he disappeared, but his voice remained, the laughter echoing in my head. I shut my eyes, trying to drown him out by replaying Kit's rehearsals in my head.

"What the hell? Was…was that gaffer's tape?" I looked down into the wings as I heard Meg's voice – and smiled, the ghosts of my past forgotten in an instant.

Forget the rehearsal replays in my head – Kit was walking onto the stage.

**

* * *

A/N** – I'm not writing it in next chapter, but the next one will be from Kit's POV again. I'll only write it in if I'm changing to someone else on you – if it's not specified at the top, it's Kit. 


	20. Paris: Sing To Life, Part 2

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

Walking into the wings of the stage, I listened as I heard Kerstin and the orchestra playing a song – and I didn't like what I heard. "Are you serious? 'Think Of Me' from Webber's play? What are they thinking?" I slapped my forehead and looked onto the stage – I was surprised anyone still dared to be on the stage. Erik should have been roaring at them to stop mocking him. But then again…perhaps he was as enthralled by the song as I was.

I heard the cue for Christine's part to begin – and couldn't stop myself. "Think of me…think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye…" I hadn't intended for my voice to carry, but just like the lair, the acoustics on the stage – even in the wings – were designed to carry sound, and my voice wafted onto the stage. I saw Meg's head turn to me as I sang, and hers was followed by the rest of the dancers, then the rest of the crew, including Sean. I couldn't stop singing in the middle of the song – I kept going, a bit louder, not wanting to venture onto the stage proper.

As I finished part of the song, I realized there was no one to sing Raoul's part – but I didn't care. Without missing a beat, Sean started singing. I groaned inwardly – he really _did_ want to become Raoul. But for the moment, I'd ignore it – he was filling in the missing vocals I couldn't reach.

The final verse started, and I sang again – hoping the lyrics were right, not caring if I was wrong. The music had taken hold of me as Erik said it would – and I melted into the cadenza. I took each note slowly – perhaps Sarah Brightman could sing it quickly, but not me, and besides, Erik said it was prettier when sung slowly. I belted the final note in the cadenza, and watched everyone onstage as their eyes widened – including Theodosia. The music ended, and I sat down in a nearby chair as they started talking onstage. I heard words like "amazing" and "stunning," but didn't believe them – until I heard a familiar, condescending female voice.

"She's very good." I looked over – it was Theodosia. "Whoever trained her took great pains and effort to do so. Maybe…maybe Nichole _should_ give her a chance."

It felt good to hear her say that – very good – and I smiled. After a moment, however, something came flying from the flies – fitting, I supposed – and landed in the auditorium, missing the orchestra pit by a hair's breadth. I heard Meg's voice. "What the hell? Was…was that gaffer's tape?" She was looking up into the flies, and I followed her gaze, starting out onto the stage proper. I couldn't see anything – it was too dark up in the flies to see if Erik was there.

I turned as I heard footsteps behind me. Nichole and J. Pierre emerged from the wings, followed by Narcisse, who was looking quite stony-faced. I sat down on one of the speakers – it would hold my weight, and I frankly didn't care if it didn't. Once Nichole had everyone's attention, she spoke. "We have the funding for the musical," she said. There were numerous reactions – some smattered applause, but mostly groans and whines. "Therefore, the main cast – and there seem to only be three roles of consequence here – are as follows. The role of 'Peter' will be played by Eliot, the role of 'D.J.' will be filled by Sean, and…" She smiled. "And the role of 'Amanda' will be played by Theodosia."

Before anyone could react, Meg had stepped in front of Nichole – they were nearly touching noses. "That role is for Christine Daaé-Chagny. Regardless of your feelings toward her and this man, her benefactor, you should put her in that role if you don't want another fiasco like J. Pierre's musical."

Nichole shoved her back – she nearly fell, but the dancers caught her as I leapt to my feet. "I don't care if that man hires Dracula to give me a hickey – _she's not getting that role_!" She turned to me and saw me on my feet – the expression on my face must have set her off again. "What's wrong with you, you little bitch?"

With a deafening crack, a row of lights severed from their couplings above where the managers were standing – unfortunately, they moved in time. Staring at the shattered lights wide-eyed for a moment, they looked at each other, then at me.

I took a deep breath. "He's not playing around anymore, and neither should you. That role is mine."

"Too bad you'll never sing it." I looked at Narcisse – he had spoken and was smiling. "Yes, we're aware of your family history, but to put it plainly, Miss…" He looked puzzled. "Miss Daaé?"

My hands balled into fists. "If you call me Daaé again, I'll make sure the next thing he drops doesn't miss."

He chuckled. "Charming girl. Miss Chagny, then – to put it rather bluntly, I heard you sing that night and your voice is rather unimpressive."

"I've taken lessons."

"Ah," he said, chuckling again. "Yes, no doubt from…_the Phantom_." He said it with an obvious mocking tone, and I felt my face going red – not in embarrassment, but in rage. "Lessons or not, Miss Giarardi was hired to sing the lead roles here, and this musical will be no exception. You were hired to be a dancer – whether or not you suddenly have glorified dreams and aspirations because of your name and because some maniac seems to think he will get his way is not my problem. You are a dancer and for this musical, you _will_ return to the purpose for which you were hired."

"I…"

"You seem to think that we are frightened of this man – there is nothing he can do to us. The chandelier has been replaced with one guaranteed to stop its own descent should it come uncoupled from the ceiling. Short of that, he would have to kill the entire theatre to frighten us – and even then, one death is enough to arrest him for murder."

"You'd have to catch him first."

"No doubt we will." He stared at me as though I were an idiot. "We are far smarter than our predecessors, Gilles André and Richard Firmin. They listened to _your_ predecessor – which, if I may, _was_ the idiot, hence the obvious family resemblance."

As my face now went red from embarrassment, the laughter started – I looked over and even saw Meg, Margery, Toby, and Sean joining in. Too speechless to retort, I ran from the stage – which prompted more laughter at my back. I ran up to the dorms and slammed the door behind me, flopping face-first onto my bed and shaking.

It wasn't that I took the insult to be him calling me an idiot – never. It did little damage – I could have done the same back, but he wouldn't have understood _my_ meaning unless he'd understood the prophecy to some extent. No – the insult was being compared to Raoul. "Family resemblance" – first he'd called me Daaé and then he'd had the audacity to compare me to that interloping jackass. Truly, if it hadn't been for Raoul de Chagny, Erik might have had a chance the first time around…

I sat up, taking deep breaths to calm my nerves. I couldn't be tense if I wanted to prove I deserved the role – I had to be calm, relaxed – I had to sing for it. As I stood, I heard a sound from behind me – turning, I spotted Toby in the doorway. "What do you want?" I said, still trying to maintain composure.

"Uh…" He ran a hand through his hair. "You're wanted on the stage." He motioned for me to follow him, and I did. The stage was in slight disarray. Things were strewn all about – they seemed to have come from the flies – and everyone looked browbeaten. I noticed several people with cuts and bumps.

Nichole turned toward me as I looked around. "All right, all right, I cave! _Merde_…you can have the lead."

I looked at Narcisse – he was sporting a cut above his right eye that would probably leave a very deep scar. "I thought you said he couldn't do anything to you?"

He just glowered at me.


	21. Paris: Lonely Phantom

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

I wandered around backstage for awhile, humming softly to myself. No one was around – everyone was too frightened of Erik to breathe a negative word now. From up in the flies, I heard a CD player start, and Toby singing – he wasn't bad, and vaguely I started to wonder if on the side, Erik was training him a bit as well in exchange for his aid.

Shuffling my feet as I started back toward the dorms, I heard a creak from behind one of the curtains near the prop closet. I looked around – no one was around. Peering behind the curtain, I saw a crack in the wall – a door. I walked a bit closer and opened the door a little wider, wondering which closet door had swung open, and gasped when I realized what I'd found.

Erik had left one of his passages unlocked, and a draft must have blown the door open. Something inside me said I should close the door and walk away, that he would be angry with me if I ventured downstairs alone – entering the passage, I shut the door behind me, not caring that I could get lost in the labyrinth and require Erik's rescue. I only got turned around twice – in the first cellar and in the third.

As I reached the fourth cellar, I finally recognized where I was and was able to find my way down to the lair. The gate was open – apparently he'd either been expecting me or he'd simply not shut it. I approached carefully – I didn't want to startle him and make him angry.

I had been ready to call his name softly when I saw him kneeling down, but I stayed silent as I saw him. He was kneeling in front of something small and furry – Ernie – stroking her slowly with one hand. I could see his mask laying beside him, and I nearly ran from the lair. I couldn't see his face, but I wasn't certain I wanted to.

His head raised as I approached, and I heard a sniffle. "What do you want?" He sounded a little angry – more upset and heartbroken than really angry, though. In that instant I knew – she'd gone. I felt awful, but part of me knew it had been only a matter of time – she was as old as me – but I still felt bad for him.

"Erik, I…" He shifted slightly on the floor, turning the good side of his face toward me. "I'm sorry. Should I go?"

He shook his head. "Please don't." I could see the tear stains on his face in the dim candlelight. "I don't want to be alone right now."

I walked toward him slowly, preparing myself for what lay in shadow. Kneeling down by him, I looked at him and finally saw his face. I tried not to gasp or shy away as he reached for my hand. There were large chunks missing – just missing – from the right side of his face. Deep scars were apparent around his right eye, near his nose, and back by his ear. Even the right side of his mouth didn't seem to have escaped – his lips were twice as wide on that side as on his left. He took my hand, and I could feel myself trembling.

"Kit?" He looked at me, tears still falling. He seemed to have noticed the sudden change in my breathing – I was trying not to hyperventilate. "What's wrong?"

I felt a tear start in my eye – but I couldn't let it fall. "Erik…" It was no good – as soon as I said his name, the tear fell.

He spotted it. "Kit, what's wrong?"

I turned away from him – I couldn't look at him or I'd start sobbing. "Is she…?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him nod, following my gaze. "I found her here. I…" He broke off, and I looked at him again involuntarily – he was sobbing. "I knew it was coming, I knew it. I just…I can't believe it…"

Without a second thought, I put my arms around his neck, hugging him. "It's all right." He didn't push me away – I doubted he even noticed, he was crying so hard. "It's all right, Erik – I'm here." After a few minutes, he calmed enough to turn toward me.

"What…are you…you're embracing me?"

I tried to move my arms, but he quickly put his hands on my wrists, holding me in place. "I could move, if you wanted…"

He leaned in toward me a bit more, brushing his nose against mine. I shuddered. "Ah, you _are_ afraid of me after all."

"N…no…"

"Yes, you are. You're trembling."

"It…it's just…"

"It's my face, isn't it?" I looked at him – he had a half-smile on his face, the usual ironic one now mixed with grief. "Be honest, Kit – is it my face that frightens you?" I nodded. He sighed, releasing my hands. "Well, I'll frighten you with it no more." He picked up his mask, and before I could speak, it was back on his face. "Better?" I nodded slowly – I felt awful. If I truly loved him, I should have been able to look at him with no fear – and yet, I had been as frightened as when he had tried to kill me.

"Do…do you want me to go?"

He turned away from me, nodding. "I need to be alone for a bit. But…" He rose and looked at me. "Will you wait a moment, do me a favor when you get back up there?" I nodded. He rummaged around in a pile of papers for a moment, then came up clutching a box. He lifted Ernie into it, placing the lid on top and handing the box to me. "Will you…" He sniffled. "Do I have to say it?"

I shook my head – I wouldn't make him say it. I knew he wanted me to bury her, and I couldn't refuse him. "I promise I will, Erik."

As I returned to the theatre – by the same door I'd gone down through, I don't know how I managed to find it – I found Meg standing backstage. When she spotted me, she ran over. "Child, what is that?"

I looked at her, tears forming in my eyes again. "Ernie."

She gasped softly. "He…he brought her?" I nodded. "She's not…" I nodded again – was she stupid? "I'll take her." She held out her hands for the box, but I clung to it.

"No, Meg, he asked me to do it."

"Child, you are very obviously upset by Ernie's death – probably as upset as he is because I _know_ he's devastated – and if you do it, it will only upset you more. Let me do this – I'll tell him I made you and besides, as long as she's not thrown in the street, he'll be happy. He just wants her buried – he doesn't much care who does it." She motioned for me to hand the box to her, and I did so with a sigh, the tears in my eyes falling. "Now go to the dorm and get some rest – you need your strength." I watched her walk off and headed to the dorm when she was out of sight.

As I lay in bed, tossing and turning, all I could see was Erik's face, unmasked and gruesome. I lay beneath my quilts, shivering and shuddering, unable to sleep. I had tried to be brave, tried to be better than _her_ – but I had to face the truth after the reaction I'd given tonight. "I'm no better than her."

* * *

After two days, when Erik had not made his presence felt, we started rehearsals. Nichole kept her word – I was the lead. We rehearsed for a grueling six hours – Nichole kept losing her place, people missed their marks, dropped lines while reading from the script, and eventually we even had to throw something up at Toby to wake him – he'd fallen asleep waiting for his cue to lower something from the flies. She finally dismissed us so she could figure out how to make the scenes work without Erik's notes – which she didn't have yet. 

As I walked toward the stairs to the dorm, Meg stopped me and handed me a small box with a card. "Don't open it here, find somewhere private," she whispered. Then she left.

I looked around and spotted a quiet corner where I was sure not to be bothered – underneath the stairs. I sat down under them and opened the card. It said simply "From Erik." I set the card aside and opened the box slowly – inside was a necklace: gold chain with a hanging pendant – two hearts, one emerald and one garnet. "Oh, it's beautiful," I said out loud. "But why…?"

And then I remembered – it was my birthday. Feeling quite stupid, I fastened the chain around my neck. It fit me perfectly, the pendant just over my own heart. I smiled. "Thank you, Erik."

I swore I heard him whisper "You're welcome."

* * *

A few more disastrous rehearsals passed – Nichole still didn't have Erik's production notes. "How can I be expected to do this?" I heard her mutter one day as she dismissed us. 

I caught Meg before she had a chance to run off. "Meg, can I…?"

"Child, I don't have time to tell you everything now."

I stood back, shocked. "That's not what I wanted to ask you."

She shut her mouth and took a deep breath. "Oh. Then what?"

"I was going to ask you if we could go to a pet shelter."

"Why? You can't have…" She stopped and stared at me. "For him?" I nodded and she smiled. "In a few minutes. Let me get my coat."

We searched four different pet shelters before I found the perfect pet – a tiny black-and-white female kitten, with a scratched-up face and torn ear. "Aw, Meg, look at her. She's adorable."

Meg wrinkled her nose as she looked inside the cage. "Kit, they're…the other cats are ignoring her. And she's damaged. There are plenty of other cats…"

"She's the Erik of cats. She's perfect."

Meg stared at me for a second, then grinned. "All right. If that's the one you want." We took her back to the theatre and made sure no one was around when we took her inside. I went down into the labyrinth with her carrier and made my way to the lair.

"Erik?" The gate was raised, as though he were expecting someone, and I walked inside, stopping by the piano and looking around. "Erik, are you here?" He came out of one of the side rooms, staring at me.

"What is it, Kit?"

I grinned. "I have something…er, some_one_…for you." I handed him the carrier. "And thank you for the necklace, by the way. It's beautiful."

He nodded toward me. "It looks good on you." Hearing a mewing from the carrier, he peered inside. "What the…?" Putting it down, he released the catch, and the little kitten stumbled out. He turned back to me. "A kitten? For me?" There were tears in his eyes.

I nodded. "You seemed so upset and lonely and…and you shouldn't be lonely anymore. She's for you." I smiled.

He crouched down and picked her up, petting her. "Well, you don't have a name yet, I'll wager." He seemed thoughtful for a moment, then smiled – I watched his face light up for the first time with a real smile instead of his usual ironic one. "Your name will be Molly." He pet her a bit more, then put her down so she could get used to her new home and turned to me. "Oh, Kit…"

I held up my hands, smiling. "Don't thank me. Meg helped."

He took me by the shoulders and made me look at him. "Was it your idea?" I nodded. "Thank you," he said deliberately. After a moment, he dipped his head and touched his lips to mine gently.

I felt my heart race a little, like it had done on the roof. I shut my eyes, touching his shoulders, and after a moment he pulled away. "Erik…"

"Are you all right?" I nodded, my eyes fluttering open. He was smiling at me. "Well, this changes things, doesn't it, Kitten?"

"How so?"

He chuckled quietly. "Starting with the obvious – we've kissed."

"I'm still not following." My head was spinning. Before he could speak, I stopped him. "Wait, did…did you call me 'Kitten' a minute ago?"

He nodded. "A pet name. If you don't like it, I'll stop."

"No, it's fine."

"Anything you want, all you need do is ask." His eyes were boring a hole through me. "Honest and truly, anything at all. You ask it of me and I'll do it."

I thought for a moment and smiled – something I truly wanted of him. "Would you do me one tiny favor?"

"Anything, Kitten."

"Stop killing?"

His lips trembled for a moment. "Very well. I'll stop."

As I smiled, our previous discussion came hurtling back to me. "Now what do you mean, things have changed?"

He leaned over toward my ear, and I heard him whisper. "I love you. Does this make it a bit clearer?" I nodded. "Good." He reached up to his face and started to pull his mask off. I trembled, and he put his other hand in the small of my back. "Your nightmares will fade in time. Right now, you must get used to seeing it – you'll be living with it the rest of your life."

"I…I will?"

He grinned – not ironic, not malicious – a happy grin. "Meg's offhanded comment wasn't a lie. Your destiny is to be wed to me."

The edges of my vision went dark, but I think he managed to catch me before I hit the walkway.


	22. Paris: Descending

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

I woke to something stroking my face. I moaned, trying to bat it away. "Erik, stop." It didn't stop. "Erik, please stop – that's quite annoying." It still didn't stop. I opened my eyes. Molly was playing with my hair, and one of the strands was tickling my forehead. "Oh, Molly." I batted her paw away gently and looked around me. I was in his bed, covered by quilts – they were very warm, even down here, where I knew it should rightly be freezing – but he was nowhere to be found. "Erik?" I called softly. "Erik?"

He appeared shortly after my call, a look of gentle concern on his face. "What is it?" he said softly, coming toward me and perching on the side of the bed. He lifted Molly away from me and put her on the floor. "What do you require?"

"Where…where am I?" I tried to sit up fully, but he held me down.

"Not quite yet, I think."

"I feel fine."

"That may be, but you've had a terribly nasty shock, now, haven't you?" He brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes and looked at me, a strange expression on his face – almost unreadable. "I didn't mean to startle you that way."

I shook my head. "I mean, it's shocking, yes…"

"Evidently."

"I don't blame you for telling me. I just…I didn't expect it."

"Once again, that was a bit evident." He helped me sit up as Molly leapt into his lap. "Are you all right now?" I nodded, and thought I heard a sigh escape from his lips. I watched him scratch Molly behind her ears and heard her start to purr. A smile started behind his mask. "Oh, she's adorable."

"Erik?" I said softly. He looked at me, still petting Molly. "Why cats? Why not something else?"

He chuckled softly. "Because they don't judge you based on looks. As long as you feed them and pet them, occasionally rub their stomach, they'll love you. Not like people."

I thought for a moment. "It's the same with dogs."

"Yes, but when's the last time you heard a cat bark?" He smiled, returning the kitten to the floor. She wandered off, exploring – probably for stray mice or rats. "Come on, we'd best get you back – they'll be missing you."

* * *

Rehearsals were no better once Nichole got Erik's notes – I ferried them up to her. "How am I supposed to do this stuff on this stage?" I simply shrugged – it was her problem now, not mine.

After a week of blocking rehearsals, Freya finally decided to have a sit-down rehearsal going through all the songs, so we'd get them right. I showed up early and found Sean waiting for me.

"Hey," he said, "can I talk to you?"

"No," I said, sitting down. "Unless it's about the play. Then you can talk to me. Otherwise, please don't."

He sighed audibly. "Kit, you don't have to be such a bitch."

"Well, I'm tired of your insincerity and your advances." I looked at him. "Stop hitting on me. It's nothing doing, Sean – you lose."

"Right, you'd sooner take a murdering maniac over me." He silenced as others started to congregate around the piano, sitting in the chairs someone had set out for us.

After a little speech about the purpose of the rehearsal from Freya, Kerstin started in with the chorus parts. There were only minor issues to work out – people not singing in the right voice parts, people missing notes. Then she let Eliot rehearse – he was perfect, and took very little time.

It was when Sean stepped up that the problems occurred. He started missing notes – not hitting the right ones. After the third try, Kerstin thumped the piano keys. "No, no. Nearly – but no." She played the phrase again, standing this time and singing along. "When in _my, my, my_…"

Sean puffed out his chest. "When in my life I've seen…" Kerstin stopped him – he was still wrong.

"No, for God's sake! When in _my, my, my_…"

He tried it again, still wrong, prompting a few snickers and giggles. I watched Theodosia look at Eliot. "At least he's singing – the other way's atrocious."

Meg tapped her shoulder. "Would you speak that way in the presence of the composer?"

Theodosia waved her hand dismissively. "He's not here, and I don't…"

"Are you certain of that…?" With an ominous smile, Meg stepped away from her. I turned back to watch Sean again.

"Try it again." Kerstin cued him in.

"When in my life I've seen…" The piano thumped again, and I giggled quietly. Still wrong after seven tries, and this was my leading man. Erik would not be pleased. The assembled cast began to talk and goof off, ignoring Freya and Kerstin as they tried to restore order. At the height of the noise, I thought I heard an annoyed scream from the wings. Then, more in my head than really spoken:

"_On three! Three!_" The piano started to play.

Kerstin wasn't near it.

Everyone silenced, watching the piano as it played the chorus part just before Sean's solo – and then started to sing. Even Freya, Kerstin, and Meg had joined in.

Realizing – with wide eyes – that I was witnessing the most insane thing Erik had done yet, I rose from my seat and ran from the stage, heading for the roof. I needed air.

I could hear music – not in my head, I knew – and without meaning to, my mouth started moving. "In sleep he sang to me…in dreams he came…that voice which calls to me…and speaks my name…" I reached the rooftop door.

There was a single red rose on the floor near it, a black ribbon tied around the stem.


	23. Paris: Her Hero

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

I stopped for a moment, staring at the flower. He'd been here. He'd known I'd come here.

Or he was luring me here.

I looked around – not seeing anyone, I bent down and picked up the rose. No one jumped out at me – no one bothered me – and I opened the door to the roof, stepping outside. It had snowed recently – fresh snow was still on the roof, no footprints marring its surface yet.

I felt the rose slip from my fingers and fall to the ground, landing in the snow. I ran to the railing at the far end of the roof and fell to my knees, crying. Had I, too, gone round the bend, just as my namesake before me? I sniffled, wiping away a tear. It couldn't be – Meg knew about Erik, and was just about as old as he was – but still…

I heard the soft rustle of silk behind me, accompanied by the crunch of snow as someone walked. I turned and saw Erik carefully and gently lifting the rose from the snow. He fingered the petals with a gloved hand and looked at me. "Oh, Kit," he said softly. My tears slowed, my sobs now silent. "Is this any way to treat my beautiful gift?" He rose from the snow and walked over to me, kneeling beside me. "Kit," he said softly. I looked at him through tear-blurred eyes. "Kitten, do stop crying." When I couldn't, when the tears still fell – quiet, but still – he slowly reached his hand up and removed his mask, laying it in my lap along with the rose. "There is nothing to cry about."

"Why?" I said, unable to articulate more than the one-syllable query.

"Why what?"

I sniffled, and he handed me a handkerchief. Drying my tears, I looked at him again. "Why did you do that downstairs?"

"I didn't frighten you, did I?" I didn't want to nod, but did anyway – better he know the truth than catch me in a lie. I expected a sigh, a shrug of the shoulders – perhaps even a quiet, halfhearted apology, not quite honest but better than nothing.

I didn't expect him to laugh. A rolling, jovial laugh – half-mixed with a maniacal undertone. "All the things I've done, and _this_ frightens you? This? A false self-playing piano that Toby helped me rig up?"

I started to shake. "What?"

"Toby rigged it up for me – I was playing one backstage that was set up to transmit whatever I was doing to the one onstage with all of you." He chuckled again. "Honestly, Kit, it's _that_ that frightened you? Of all the things I've done, this? This is nothing."

"But…"

"_I've killed people_," he said quietly. There was a maniacal gleam in his eye as he leaned toward me, staring intently. "I'm a murderer – did you forget that? Twenty-three people…"

"Yes, but the chandelier this time…"

"Twenty-three people is still twenty-three people, whether or not they were by accident." His gaze didn't waver. "I've still done three deliberately, Kit – have you forgotten? François Boucher…"

"Erik…"

"…Ubaldo Piangi…"

I shuddered. "Erik, please…"

"…and Joseph Buquet. Every day of my accursed life I've had to live with their blood on my hands." He sighed, now looking down at the snow. "The sad thing is, I'm not sorry for those three. The chandelier…that was accidental…I didn't mean for them to die. But Buquet, Piangi, and Boucher…"

"François."

He looked up at me. "He's Boucher to me. If I call him anything else, I might start to feel sorry for what I did."

I looked away from him – down toward the mask in my lap. "He didn't deserve to die, Erik."

There was silence between us for a few moments. Then I felt his hand on my cheek. "You're right," he said. "He didn't deserve to die. I'm sorry." I nodded, still staring at the mask and the rose through tear-blurred eyes. Why did Nichole fear this man? No, not man – no man could live this way and still retain his sanity. And perhaps he hadn't – he was more than a century overdue for death, after all.

I looked up at his face through my blurry eyes. It was amazing to imagine this poor, twisted soul living down in the dark, dank basements, without a soul to care for him and only a kitten for companionship. But before I could open my mouth to speak again, there came a call from the stairwell that I heard clearly – the door was still ajar.

"Kit?" It was Sean. "Kit, are you up here?" I looked toward the door, hoping he would not emerge. Then I looked back toward Erik, but he had gone, just as quietly and mysteriously as he had come, the mask gone from my lap as well. Sean emerged from the door and spotted me sitting in the snow. "Kit, what are you doing?" he said, rushing over to me and helping me to stand. "You'll catch your death out here." He stared at me strangely as I stood.

"What, Sean?" I asked, the perplexed look on his face too much for me.

"Where did you get that?" he asked back, pointing to something behind me. Then I realized he wasn't pointing behind me – I was too numb to have felt it, but Erik's cloak was wrapped around me. He must have done it while I was turned from him, to keep me warm. I held it to me for a moment – then felt Sean's arms wrapped around me.

I pulled away an instant later. "Sean, don't."

"Why not?" He looked at me, exasperated. "I'm tired of the act, Christine. Tell me why you won't have me."

"Because I don't love you. I love…" I faltered – I could still feel Erik's presence. I didn't think he ought to hear it if I wasn't facing him.

Sean sighed, a half-smile on his face – but he looked bitter. "You love _him_," he spat. I nodded. I turned my back on him and tried to run for the stairwell, but he caught my arm, forcing me to drop the rose I held once again in the snow. "Kit," he whispered. "There is no way that you can love him. He's not real, and if he is, he certainly is not a man."

I turned to look at him. "Sean," I said. "I don't love you. Not the way you wish I did. I'm sorry, but he is real and if you don't believe that, there is nothing I can do about that."

Sean did not let go of my arm. "He's not real, Kit. He's just a figment of your twisted imagination."

I slapped him full across the face. He released my arm, but I did not run. "I am not insane!" I yelled for the world to hear. "He is real! He was here! I talked to him! He is real!" I ran for the stairwell, crying…but halfway there I tripped and fell face first into the snow. I could hear Sean catching up with me, and then someone helped me up. Sean's strong arms were around me.

"That's quite a fall you took," he cooed softly. "Are you hurt?" I shook him off as I heard footsteps from the darkness. Menacing footsteps pacing around the perimeter of the roof. Sean heard them too and tried to keep me behind him, but it was no use trying – I stopped him every time. "Who's there?" Sean called into the darkness. There was no reply – I didn't expect Erik to answer Sean. I knew it was Erik. As this thought occurred, something came hurtling out of the darkness and landed at Sean's feet. I couldn't tell what it was…then I looked closer.

It was a noose.

I started shivering, but I wasn't cold. "It's Erik," I whispered. "Sean, he'll kill you."

Sean turned around and pushed me backwards. I fell over into the snow again. "Shut up and stay down," he said. He picked up the noose and studied it for a moment. Before he could do anything, an angry voice called out of the darkness.

"_If you lay another hand on her, you're a dead man! Come to me, my Angel…I'll protect you…_"

I rose to run to Erik, though I couldn't see him, but before I could do as I'd intended, Sean grabbed my arm and hauled me back into his embrace. "You'll never take her!" he screamed. I tried to twist free, but he wouldn't have it. "No, Kit, stop!" he whispered to me, as though it would make a bit of difference. "You'll never take her, you coward!" Sean yelled again into the darkness. "She's mine!"

There was a primal scream from the darkness, and just as Sean flung me aside, Erik leapt out of the shadows at Sean. I screamed, but it made little difference – Erik was too enraged to probably hear much. I ran toward them, hoping that I would be able to pry Erik off of Sean, but before I could even take more than six or seven steps, Erik had the noose around Sean's neck. "No!" I cried, alarmed. "Erik, please don't do it!"

He turned to me, a cold fury burning in his eyes. I fell to my knees, crying. I watched as Sean pulled at the noose around his neck, trying to loosen it, but he had no luck – Erik had it pulled taut, choking Sean slowly. I couldn't see why Erik would do this. Sean was like a brother to me, he had always been there for me, and yet Erik would kill him for trying to protect me.

But Erik saw me crying, and when he did, his eyes softened. The end of the rope fell from his hand, and he walked over to me. "All right," he whispered. "You win. I won't kill him."

"He was only trying to protect me."

He touched my cheek tenderly. "Would I hurt you?"

"He doesn't know that."

"Would I hurt you?" he repeated.

"No. But he doesn't know that."

He kissed my forehead. "He will soon enough."

A growl came from behind Erik – Sean had gotten free of the noose. "You _bastard_!" he screamed, climbing to his feet. "Get away from her!"

Erik turned to him – I tried to keep him facing me with no luck – and laughed maniacally. "Or you'll do what? You're the most pitiful excuse for a protector I've ever seen! Even that little sissy bastard Raoul had more success with women than you do!"

I watched as Sean's lip trembled. He focused on Erik, a murderous look in his eyes – but didn't move. "This isn't over," he said, turning and running back inside.

Erik laughed – a long, low thing that chilled me. "No, it's not." When he looked at me again, his expression seemed a bit softer. He stroked my hair. "Are you all right, Kitten?"

I nodded, looking at him. "Erik…" I faltered.

He waited a moment, then nodded slightly. "Yes?"

I reached up and gently removed his mask. Fearing anger, I waited a moment.

His only reaction was a small sigh. "I was wondering when you'd be brave enough to do that."

"I never wanted to be like _her_."

"You're not." Another sigh. "You were saying something?"

I stepped a shade closer to him, my feet half-frozen, and rolled up into a decent demi-pointe – my lips were close enough to his to do. "I love you." I kissed him – a good one – then stood back for a second. For a moment, his eyes remained shut – he seemed to have gotten lost in the kiss, and I nearly called his name. As I went to speak, his eyes opened, staring straight at me.

"You…you lo…" I spotted a tear in his eye. "You love…" The tear fell, and he didn't bother to catch it.

I nodded. "I love you."

"After everything I've done?" I nodded. "I'm a _murderer_…"

"I don't care. You promised me you wouldn't again." He nodded. After a moment, it seemed to dawn on him – the full weight of what I'd said.

He grabbed me about the waist and twirled me about several times, kissing me. When we stopped spinning, he held me aloft for a moment, staring at me. "You…you're amazing," he whispered.

"That's your fault," I said, giggling. He started to laugh as well, putting me down. He turned me in his arms – my back to his chest – and put his mouth next to my ear…and started to sing the last song in the world I expected to hear from his mouth.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…say the word and I will follow you…share each day with me, each night, each morning…" He turned me to face him. "Anywhere you go, let me go too…Christine, that's all I ask of…"

I didn't let him finish.

I cut him off with a kiss.

* * *

"Places, everyone, places!" Of course Cendrine André couldn't stop yelling for two minutes – it was just making me more nervous. "It's time to entertain!"

I tugged at the neckline of my costume again – it wasn't helping. It still itched like hell. Ignoring the itching sequins, I watched the curtain rise with apprehension, staring up toward Box Five – which the managers had promised Erik would be left empty for him this time.

It was empty – not even a shadow. I smiled – then frowned.

Either Erik was late to the show – the overture had already started – or he was cooking something up. And Erik was never late to a performance.

We sang through the first act with no trouble – but also with no one watching us from Box Five. During intermission, I heard Sean start sneezing in the wing, and offered him a tissue. He took it. "Thanks, Kit." He sneezed again, then twice more. "I don't know what's wrong with me – I only sneeze like this when there's an animal around…"

I paled. "What do you mean?"

"I'm allergic to pet dander." He looked at me, puzzled. "Thought you knew that."

I turned away from him and started looking around, now convinced.

Sean wasn't making it through the second act.


	24. Paris: Unspoken Secrets

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

He stopped sneezing just as the second act began. I should have been grateful for small favors – at least now Sean could sing – but I was only more worried, not less. At least before, with Sean sneezing, I knew Erik was somewhere close by – he never could clean all the loose cat hair off his clothes.

Just before I went out onstage for the final scene to start, Meg caught me in the wing and whispered a warning in my ear. "Whatever happens, child – don't panic." Before I could ask her to clarify, she pushed me toward the stage so I didn't miss my cue. I walked out onstage, singing my part and acting, glancing up at Box Five with the first opportunity I had.

It was still empty.

As I turned toward the audience and heard Eliot's part finish, I started to shake. Erik had turned _Don Juan Triumphant_ into a musical – but why? Because the opera had failed to accomplish what he'd hoped it would? Because _she_ had betrayed him onstage? I knew Sean's part would start in a moment – hoping for his voice, I waited, still acting my part like nothing was wrong, like no thoughts were occurring in my head other than my lines.

Sean's voice didn't come from behind me. Still acting, I stood up on cue when the voice came anyway. Trying not to scream out in horror, I turned slowly, followed my cues, and saw Sean's replacement, in full costume – including the mask that Sean would have worn in the scene, almost covering his whole face…but I still knew who it was.

Erik. I should have expected it, even not wanting it…

He sang through Sean's part, his voice loud and booming – his rich, full baritone utterly no match for Sean's. I could hear people behind me in the wings panicking, wondering what to do. The orchestra hadn't yet stopped playing – they probably couldn't hear much over their instruments.

When my cue came, I started to sing as well – suddenly realizing why this song was so difficult a duet for Sean and me. It was a darker tone than the rest of the play, and written specifically for my voice and Erik's – not Sean's. He'd intended to take Sean's place all along. I was less enraged than I ought to have been – but God help him if Sean had been hurt.

The duet finished with me in Erik's arms – my back against his chest, as we had been on the roof. I was shuddering – I knew he could feel it – and then he started…the orchestra playing along once they realized he wasn't going to stick to his lines.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…lead me, save me from my solitude…say you want me with you, here beside you…" He turned me to face him. "Anywhere you go, let me go too…Christine, that's all I ask of you!"

The orchestra nearly stopped playing, but I took a breath and started. "Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…say the word and I will follow you…"

He joined me. "Share each day with me, each night, each morning…Anywhere you go, let me go too…Love me – that's all I ask of you…"

As the orchestra stopped – in the middle of the previous line, and somehow we still stayed on key – I heard murmurs from the audience. I pulled away from Erik's grasp and started with my scripted lines again – somehow he seemed to get the message. He followed suit, and amazingly, we finished the play to thunderous applause.

When it came time for curtain call, Erik was nowhere to be found – but Sean reappeared just in time to take his bow with me. I almost refused to bow with him, but did anyway – after all, if I could act calm when I was panicking over Erik taking the lead, I could act like I wanted to bow with Sean.

After the curtain had come down, and the audience was heard leaving, Sean stomped backstage with the rest of the cast. I followed, curious. "All right," he was screaming, "I want that bastard down here now! I'm going to _kill_ him for what he did!"

Catching up to him, I caught his arm. "Sean, stop it…"

He shook me off. "You stay out of this – you've protected him long enough, Kit. Now he'll pay." He turned to Nichole, a strange smile on his face. "We'll make him pay, won't we?"

I ducked into my dressing room. I didn't want to know what harebrained scheme they'd concoct to try and snare Erik – he wasn't stupid enough to let them catch him. Spotting a vase on my vanity table, I walked over to it, looking. There were at least two dozen red roses in the vase – each one had a black ribbon tied about the stem. Knowing immediately who they were from, I smiled, gently fingering the petals on one flower. Noticing there was a card, I picked it up and read it.

_Kit, I love you. Forgive me. –Erik._

I was puzzled. Forgive him for what?

Hearing a loud scream from out in the hall, I dropped the card and rushed to the door. When I opened it, I saw chaos. Before I could say a word, ask what had happened, Margery was in front of me, crying. "Kit! Kit! He…oh, God, he…"

"Who?"

"Sean."

Gripping the doorframe, I stared at my friend. "What happened?"

"The…" She lowered her voice. "Oh, God, why didn't I believe you? The Phantom…he's real…he came and took Sean…"

I leaned against the doorframe heavily, my head spinning. He'd promised. He'd promised not to hurt anyone again. And now he'd taken Sean.

Swallowing hard, I pushed by Margery and started toward the dormitory. As I passed by Meg, she looked at me. "Where are you going?"

I stopped for a moment, looking up at the dorm door. "What goes up…is going down."

* * *

The labyrinthine cellars were getting more and more familiar to me, and I managed to find my way down to Erik's lair in record time – for being unescorted, anyway. As I got closer, I heard muffled screaming. "Sean," I whispered, knowing it was him.

Erik had left the gate open – perhaps in his rush to get Sean inside, he'd simply forgotten to close it, or perhaps he just figured anyone coming after Sean would get lost in the labyrinth. I walked inside quietly, hiding behind the curtain Erik had first brought me through and only peeking through it to see. When I spotted them, I felt immediate anger and fear.

Sean was tied to the piano bench – each of his limbs tied to a different leg. He was on his back, thrashing about, and as he did I realized why his screaming was muffled – Erik had gagged him, too. Erik was standing over him, staring almost lovingly at a knife. "Well, well, Sean…just you and me. Now, I believe you wanted me punished, didn't you?" He paused while Sean screamed. "Yes, you did. Hmm…I don't think I'm going to let that happen. I think, instead, I ought to punish you for your insolence." He crouched down by Sean, staring at him. "See, I was born disfigured, so it's not really by choice that I'm an outcast. You, on the other hand…I hand you a role and all I ask is that you play sick for one scene – and you can't do that much. You can't let me have one scene with her." Sean mumbled something, and Erik chuckled. "Do shut up, boy. Now, down to business." He lifted the knife. "I'll do this carefully, don't worry – but when I'm done, you'll know my pain…"


	25. Paris: Unconditional

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

_Those who  
__have seen your face  
__draw back  
__in fear…  
__I am  
__the mask you wear…  
__It's you  
__they hear…_

_Your spirit  
__and my voice,  
__in one  
__combined:  
__the Phantom of the Opera  
__is there –  
__inside my mind…_

I rushed into the lair, toward the boys. "Erik, don't!"

He turned to me, jumping to his feet. "Kit, get out of here." I saw Sean's head tip up toward me, trying to look at me – but I was more focused on Erik. The knife was still pointed at Sean's face. "I let him get away unscathed once – he's not to be so lucky after crossing me twice."

"But you got what you wanted! You played the scene with me!"

Erik stamped his foot – the childishness of the gesture did not escape me. "Well, if he'd just stop being _une chienne pleurnichant_ for two minutes…!"

"Oh, stop it!" I yelled, lunging for the knife. He pulled back, holding it out of my reach. "Erik, he's _not_ Raoul."

I saw his teeth clench. "Don't…say…that name…"

"Stop it. You're acting childish – and it's not flattering, at your age." I paused for a moment – just how old _was_ he? It didn't matter now – I'd find out later, I was certain of it. "Just…you have to stop this."

"Why?" He turned away from me. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Because you promised me you wouldn't kill anymore!" I nearly stamped my own foot, but it wouldn't have done to have scolded him for doing the same thing only to do it myself. "You'd break your promise…" I broke off – his shoulders were shaking. "Erik?" As he turned, I heard it.

He was laughing – low, haunting – but still laughing. "You…you think I want him _dead_? You imagine I'd break my word to you over _him_?" The low chuckling turned to a haughty, full laugh. "He's not that important!"

I opened my mouth again, but didn't speak immediately – what on Earth…? "If…but…Erik, if you don't want him dead, then…but the knife…?"

He was still laughing. After a moment, he reached up and pulled off his mask – I heard Sean scream in terror and start thrashing about again. "Would you care for him if he looked like me? Would you?"

"Oh, God…" He started laughing again, staring at me. "Erik, don't. He…he doesn't matter, really…"

"Oh, really? Then why'd you _beg_ me to spare his life on the roof?"

I stared at him. "So you didn't break your promise to me. Besides…how many times are we going to go over this? _He's not Raoul!_"

There was a long, uneasy silence. I watched Erik's hand carefully – he grasped the knife tighter, bringing it toward Sean's face. Sean struggled hard, trying to move – he screamed, but it was having no effect on Erik. I stood in place, frightened – then an idea struck me.

"Erik?"

He looked at me, the knife poised over Sean's cheek. "What?" he growled.

"Do you…" I felt awful for blackmailing him this way…almost. "Do you love me?"

"You know I do, Kitten." The knife twitched in his hand. "Why?"

"If you really love me, don't hurt him." He stared at me for a moment, his jaw slowly dropping wide. "I mean it. If I see one drop of blood, I'll take that as a sign you've stopped loving me."

He closed his mouth. For a moment, his hand remained steady over Sean's face. Then it dropped to his side, the knife clattering to the floor. "Fine. You win." He walked away from Sean, settling down by the organ. I saw him fidgeting with something.

I paused only a moment before rushing to the knife and freeing Sean. As soon as the gag was dislodged from his mouth, he started. "Give me that knife."

"No."

"This is no time to argue with me, now give me that damn knife!" He made to take it from me.

I held it up defensively – if he tried to take it, he'd be cut. "Stop it – have you _both_ lost your minds?" Sean sat down on the piano bench, staring at me – Erik turned and stared at me as well. "You're both acting like children, and I'm tired of it."

"Who cares what you think?" Sean muttered – he probably thought I couldn't hear him.

I put the knife closer to his throat than he evidently liked – he backed up quickly, nearly sitting on the piano. "I'm sorry, what was that?" He shook his head, and I relaxed. "You, my friend, are going to go back upstairs and keep your mouth shut."

"But…" I pushed him out of the lair at knifepoint, feeling bad. When I could no longer hear his footsteps – which meant he was at least one floor above us – I returned to the lair. There was nothing to stop him turning around, certainly, but if he did I wouldn't blame Erik for hurting him – and I wouldn't stop him, either.

Erik turned to me as I re-entered the lair. "He's bound to get lost down here, you know."

"He's got a good sense of direction – he'll find his way upstairs if he really wants to." I sat down next to Erik and handed him the knife. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" I looked at him – he'd still not put his mask back on, and the rest of him was still in costume. "Why should you be sorry? I'm the one that nearly broke my word." He sighed. "Twice." He looked at me. "Kit, I…I'm a bad man, I really am. What draws you here and keeps you?"

"Love."

He sighed. "But why?"

I touched his cheek gingerly – he didn't shy away. "I don't know. But I do know that I love you, and no matter how you try to change my mind, you're not going to succeed, Erik." I sighed, pulling my hand back. "Well…now that I've had a lead role, when must I fulfill my end of the bargain we made?"

"What do you mean?"

"You made me promise, when you began my lessons, that at a time of your choosing – you'd let me know when – I would have to remain here with you for eternity. I haven't forgotten my promise to you." I was quiet for a moment. "So when must my end of the bargain be fulfilled?"

He chortled softly. "Oh, Kit…you've had but one role thus far. If you thought I intended for that one role to be both your first and last lead, you were mistaken." He stroked my hair. "I intend for you to descend those stairs one final time once your voice is no longer pleasing to the world – whenever that is will be determined a long time from now, I'm sure." He kissed my forehead softly, holding me to him for a moment. "Don't worry, Kitten. I've no intention of keeping a pretty young girl like you locked away down here – not when you can sing as well as I've taught you to."

There was silence between us for a moment. As he went to speak again, I silenced him with a kiss – he protested a bit, but it was lost in my lips. After a moment, he stopped whimpering and seemed to enjoy himself. He took me in his arms and carried me into his bedroom, laying me down on the bed and kneeling by me.

I sat up. "What are you…?"

He put a finger on my lips. "Hush – don't you trust me?"

"Erik…"

"Love should come with some amount of trust, Kitten. I'll ask again: do you trust me?" When I nodded, he smiled. "Then just lay back and trust me." I lay back on his pillows, and felt him hovering over me – then his mouth on mine. My arms automatically went around his neck. We kissed and cuddled – then kissed some more. After what felt like hours – I wasn't even sure if it was still night or if it was morning now, and being underground made it hard to tell – I felt myself tugging at his shirt. He looked at me through heavy-lidded eyes. "I thought you didn't want that."

"I…I…" I looked at him. Even disfigured as he was, I loved him enough…why shouldn't I? "Why shouldn't we?"

"Let's start with…you're seventeen." He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "And I'm one-hundred sixty-five." He frowned. "Disgusting…I should be _long_ dead. I'm a walking corpse."

I traced a line down his chest with my index finger. "But I love you anyway."

"I know that, or you wouldn't be here. Oh, Kitten…" He sighed. "Even if you break the curse – no, _when_ you break the curse – there's no guarantee I'll live much longer. You could have any young man you wished – don't think my jealousy of that boy is unfounded. I know it's not. I know he's after you." He looked at me. "So why me? Don't tell me you don't know – I just want to know why me over him."

I touched his cheek again, kissing his lips gently. "It's you because you love me. He doesn't – not the way you do. He wants me to be pretty and silent. You want me to be pretty and loud."

He chuckled. After a moment, he sat up. "Do you want to…?" Even with him breaking off and starting to blush – a sight which made me start to giggle – I knew what he meant. "Why are you laughing at me?"

"Because I have half a mind to think I'm dreaming."

"Why?"

"Well, surely in real life, the Phantom of the Opera does not blush." He flushed a deeper red than before. "Good grief, Erik, if you blush any more, there'll be no blood left anywhere else in your body." If I hadn't heard the next sound out of his mouth with my own two ears, I might not have believed it possible.

He giggled.

Not a maniacal laugh, not a chilling laugh – an actual giggle.

I gasped softly at how amazing he looked with a smile – granted, he wasn't the most handsome man in the world, but was that supposed to mean I shouldn't love him for that alone? I was past his face by now – it was just who he was, and I didn't care. "Erik," I whispered. "Can we…?"

He nodded, leaning down to kiss me.


	26. Paris: Swift and Sure

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

_In all  
__my fantasies,  
__I always  
__knew  
__that man  
__and mystery…  
__were both  
__in you…_

_And in  
this labyrinth,  
where night  
is blind,  
the Phantom of the Opera  
is here –  
inside my mind…_

I opened my eyes, looking around. my brain was in a fog. I had no idea where I was – and then I went to sit up, and found I was pinned down by an arm. Erik's arm. I nearly screamed – I was still in the lair?! Then it came back to me: all the events of the previous night, how Erik and I had… I turned carefully onto my other side, trying not to wake him. I watched him as he slept. His mask was not on – it was somewhere out by the piano. His eyes were shut, and his breathing was quiet. He was snoring softly – he must have been in a deep sleep.

I carefully climbed out from under Erik's arm, placing it gently onto the bed once I had gotten free. I gathered my clothes from where they'd been strewn around the room and dressed – it was freezing. Pulling my shoes on, I heard Erik give a sudden loud snore, and I turned to him. He was still asleep – but shivering a bit. I reached over and pulled the blankets up a bit farther, covering him better. He stirred a bit, and I thought he'd wake, but after a moment he settled down, still asleep.

I smiled, for I was sure I was seeing something rare. The Phantom was sleeping – it was sweet, in an eerie way. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered vaguely what he might be dreaming about – and a moment later, hoped it might be me. The small smile on his face was a bit telling, but still…I hoped it was me he was dreaming about.

I walked out of the bedroom and into the lair, needing time to think. Glancing toward the piano, I spotted a small clock – battery-operated, I figured – and his mask. I smiled – then gasped. "It's that late?" I knew I had to get back upstairs – it was almost mid-morning, and at least Meg was certain to be missing me. I looked back toward Erik's bedroom – I could still hear him snoring softly. I didn't want to leave him. If he woke and found me gone, what would he think? Would he think I didn't love him – that I wasn't serious about last night?

I looked around for pen and paper – I'd leave him a little note. After a moment, I found blank paper, but nothing that resembled a pen – and then I spotted Erik's quill and ink bottle. My jaw dropped – he still wrote with this archaic equipment? It was comical, but somehow I figured out how to write with the quill. I signed my note C.D-C., thinking that the O.G. might find it amusing. When I had finished it, and allowed the ink to dry, I walked back up to the bedroom and laid my note on the bed. Should Erik wake, I did not want him to panic at not finding me in the bed, and figured that at least his eyes would spot the note. Once my note was neatly in place, I quietly left the lair, carefully finding my way back up toward the dormitory passage and emerging from the grate – closing it behind me just as Meg entered the room.

"Child, _where_ on Earth have you been?" She looked exasperated. "I've searched high and low in this theatre – I was just about to brave the cellars to find you!"

I sighed. "Sorry, Meg."

"You didn't stay there last night with him."

"I did."

She made a little annoyed grunt in her throat. "Figures."

"Meg, I love him."

Immediately, her expression changed – but it wasn't the happy one I expected. "Child, you…"

I silenced her with a hand – there was a noise behind me in the passage. It almost sounded like…like people descending through the cellars. "Meg, what's that?"

She stared at me for a moment, then started to pale. "I…I didn't think they would…"

Then I realized – the noise was getting louder – they were _ascending_, not descending. "Oh, God…Meg…"

We rushed out of the dorm, heading toward the stage – I could hear the noise from the mob growing louder the closer we ran. When we reached the stage, there was a throng of people gathered around – I could not see through them. Meg forced her way through, dragging me with her. Now I could see what we'd all gathered about – an empty chair. I was confused for a moment. As if on some macabre cue, I heard several screams from the opposite side of the stage – and through the crowd, which was now parting quickly for them, Nichole appeared, leading J. Pierre, Toby, and several of the other stagehands.

They were dragging Erik. His hands were bound behind him, but he wasn't struggling. As I watched in mute horror, they threw him into the chair and tied him fast to it. I could feel tears in my eyes. He'd allowed himself to be caught – but why? How? I felt Meg nudge me and whisper something, but I was deaf to her. My eyes were fixed on Erik – helpless, powerless. I wanted to rush to him but knew how foolish it would be.

When my hearing returned – when I started paying attention – Nichole was laughing, staring at Erik. "Finally. We best you instead of the other way around."

"You've done nothing of the sort," Erik said softly.

"Beg to differ. Which one of us is the captive?" There was silence for a moment. She laughed again. "Thought so. So…you intended to kill Sean twice…you let him escape twice." She took a knife from J. Pierre. "Perhaps we ought to return the favor, _n'est pas_?"

I watched him breathe deeply and exhale – a wicked grin played across his lips. "I dare you."

I nearly screamed, but Meg covered my mouth at the last second. Nichole looked stunned for a moment – unsure of what he'd said. Then the same grin crossed her face.

She rushed forward and plunged the knife into his heart.


	27. Paris: No More Lies

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

I shook off Meg's hand – I didn't care what happened to me now. "_Erik!_"

For a moment, time seemed to stop – I watched as his eyes widened, then his head fell forward. Nichole pulled the knife out, stepping back. There was silence – everyone was fixated on Erik.

J. Pierre's voice broke the silence. "Um…Nicki…?"

"What?" I turned to look at her, and caught sight of the knife in her hand. There was no blood on it. Quickly, my head snapped back to Erik – he wasn't bleeding. In fact, the wound that should have been made by the knife almost seemed to have disappeared.

A moment later, I heard a low laugh coming from Erik. He raised his head slowly, glaring at Nichole. "You think it's that easy?" he said softly. "If only. But please, do try again. I haven't been stabbed in – oh – maybe eighty years. I'd forgotten what it felt like. Please, do try again."

Still frozen, knowing I could do nothing, I watched as she rushed over to him. I feared she'd stab him again, cut his throat perhaps – instead, she took hold of his mask and pulled it off.

The reaction was immediate.

Everyone assembled reacted as I thought – the women screamed and ran, the men just ran. Nichole backed up quickly, and I watched as the mask started to fall from her hand. I nearly screamed again, but Meg covered my mouth again, holding my arm so I couldn't run to save it. I watched it tumble slowly toward the floor and hit – the moment it did, it shattered into at least thirty pieces.

I looked over at Erik. He was staring at the floor, at the pieces, tears in his eyes. "No…" He struggled a couple of times, but it was useless – even if he could get free, he couldn't repair it.

Nichole started laughing. "Oh, dear, dear. Now I've _really_ gone and done it, haven't I? Your precious shield – whatever will you do?" She turned around, now facing the few stagehands who'd remained – Toby included. "You know that cage sitting in the prop room? The one for the next show? Lock him in it."

"But…" Toby looked worried. "But that's just a prop."

"No, it's real. I figured we might need it for something…_else_," she said, looking back at Erik.

Before I could blink, the stagehands were moving toward Erik – determined but apprehensive, it looked like – and had untied him from the chair. They dragged him away toward the prop closet, and I wanted to follow, but Meg started dragging me in the opposite direction. "No, Kit, come on. Up to the dormitory with you."

"Not so fast, Giry," Nichole said from behind us. We stopped and turned. "Little Chagny there – you know him, don't you?" Her grin was almost too much. I shook my head, determined not to betray him – it'd be far too much for him to deal with if I suddenly ended up in that cage with him. "Oh, but I think you do. What was it you shouted when I had that knife in his chest? _Erik_, was it? Is that his name – Erik?"

I shrugged. "I…I don't…"

She threw the knife on the stage, now looking angry. "Don't you toy with me, child! I want the truth and I want it now! Do you know him, and is that his name? One answer will suffice for both." I could hear Meg hissing at me not to answer her, but the look in her eyes was just too much. I nodded slowly, and her grin just grew wider. "That's what I thought." Without another word, she walked away, taking the knife with her.

As she walked away, Meg rushed me toward her room, muttering the whole way. The moment she'd shut the door, I silenced her. "Meg?"

"What?"

"What the _bleeding hell_ was that?"

There was silence for a moment. "What do you…"

"Don't do that! You know what I mean! She _stabbed_ him – and he didn't…" I sat down on her bed, running a hand through my hair. "When she stabbed him, he didn't die. He didn't even bleed. How is that possible?"

She didn't answer me. She walked over to her night table and picked up a pair of scissors, opening the blade. Before I could say anything, she dragged it across her wrist – but nothing happened, not even a mark appeared. "We're immortal, child."

I blinked. "Well, yeah, I got that part."

She sat down next to me, putting the scissors back. "We're invulnerable to harm – she could have shot Erik and it would have made not a lick of difference, he would have been all right."

"Meg, that part I get. He's a hundred and sixty-five…"

"His birthday's in May, so add a year then."

I fingered the pendant around my neck, staring at the emerald for a moment. "I know." I shook myself. "I don't care! Meg, this isn't about him! What about you? Why you?"

She sighed, then started laughing. "I was wondering when I'd be forced to answer you." For a moment, there was silence between us, then she started. "Why me…? Oh, that's not simple. I wish it were…"

"Just tell me."

"All right." A quick breath. "The prophesy – I know you've never seen the whole thing, so relax – but it says that not only must Erik be affected by the curse, his caretaker must be as well."

"Then why you? I thought…?"

"Yes, my mother did take care of him." She sighed. "But when Étienne made his curse, my mother was dead. My mother could not be affected, so instead of her, the curse chose me as its victim – as Erik's caretaker." She fidgeted with a sleeve for a moment. "He was like the brother I couldn't stand – he frightened me all my life. But when I realized what had happened, I…well, I knew I had no choice. I had to care for him. I'd been taking care of him already – but as little as possible. I mostly left him to his own devices, down in a small apartment where no one would think to look for him. As soon as I could arrange it, we left Paris – him and me. I took him to London – he'd always wanted to go – and set up my dance school.

"What I didn't plan on was Étienne following me to London. He hounded me from the day we arrived – he was only a young boy, still barely thirty…I was already well into my sixties, and could not understand what he saw, what he wanted. But…" She sighed. "Kit, we had a child, Étienne and myself – you know him as Christopher Chagny."

I stared at her, my mouth agape. "You…you're…"

"I'm your great-great-grandmother, yes." She smiled. "That makes Margery your half-great-grandaunt. Frightening, isn't it?" She sighed, the smile on her face dying. "But he never knew, Étienne – not until Christopher was born. He didn't know the curse had affected me – he didn't think it had worked. At that moment, he knew – he knew the Phantom his mother had known was real, and he asked me if he might meet Erik."

I shook my head. "Foolish."

"Yes, it was. Erik nearly killed him."

"Nearly?"

"I begged him not to. He only spared Étienne's life for me – when he realized Étienne was to be a father. He said he couldn't take the boy's life, even after what he'd done, when he had a child on the way." There were tears in her eyes – I could see them threatening to fall. "He did die, though – when Christopher was ten. I spent the rest of his days caring for my boy – and for his boy, little Taylor, and then for Taylor's son." She smiled. "Your father, little Owen. I thought it would be much longer before the prophesy would be fulfilled, but when your mother gave birth to a girl…" She sighed. "Your parents knew who I was, _what_ I was – it was better that you and your brother never knew."

"Why?"

"Because, my dear – you were born to be like Christine. That meant in every way. She was an orphan – if you knew that, how happy a childhood would you have had? As it was, you only had a few years with them – at least they were happy. If you'd known you'd lose them, what good would it have done you?" She stood up. "I made a promise to your parents, to help you see this thing through, and now that you know everything, I think it's time." She took a book from her night table and handed it to me. "Read this – it's Étienne's journal. It's not long – he only started it when Christopher was five. But the prophesy is in there as well – I made him write it down again. Read it." She walked to the other side of the room and sat down in a chair, a tear streaking down her cheek.

I looked at the book for a moment, then put it on the bed. "No, Meg." She went to speak, but I cut her off. "No. I don't care. Whatever's in here can't possibly be as important as what we need to do right now."

"And that is…?"

"Erik's in a cage downstairs. We need to get him out."


	28. Paris: Bow Out and Exit

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

_**Erik**_

Perhaps "the Phantom" didn't cry. But locked in a cage, in a dark closet, remembering every injustice I'd ever been put through – every last ounce of torture – I couldn't stop. They weren't loud sobs – just quiet, hot tears. And I wasn't even sad – angry, more like. "I'll…I'll…"

But what? What could I do? I'd given up any chance of revenge when I'd promised Kit I wouldn't kill again.

My thoughts wandered – the stage would be bare now, and if I could get free, I could possibly retrieve the pieces of my shattered mask. My heart sank – I'd seen Kit try to move for it, to catch it, and yet Meg had held her back. I knew it was probably for her own good – I would never want her hurt – but still, a part of me wanted her to have caught the mask.

I wiped my tears away as I saw a sliver of light appear at the door to the closet. Someone was coming in – with food, I hoped. I was starving. I looked closely as they entered, unlocking the cage. "T…Toby?"

He froze for a second, eyeing me. "You gonna kill me if I come in?" I shook my head, and he unlocked the cage and entered, holding out a small plate to me. "Thought you might be…" I had it out of his hands before he could finish, tearing ravenously into the meager offering he'd brought to placate me. "…hungry," he finished rather uselessly – I was already licking the plate.

I handed the plate back to him, and immediately thought of something. "Toby, why are you here? Where's Kit? Meg, even?"

"They wanted to come in here, but think of it – everyone knows Meg and you have some sort of connection, and could you _imagine_ what they'd do to poor Kit if they caught her here?" I nodded – poor girl, I couldn't let her be hurt. "So I sent them back to Meg's room. I, uh…I brought you something else, by the way." I looked up at him as he held another item out to me – small and white, and I recognized it immediately.

"My…my…" I took it from him gently, turning it over in my hands. He'd repaired it – but… "Toby, how did you do this?"

"Glue," he said quietly. He crouched down by me. "I know what you told me about going along with them if I had to, but I still felt bad about not stopping her from smashing it. So I fixed it for you as best I could – sorry if it's not perfect."

I stared at him for a moment, but when he turned away, I sighed and put the mask on. I hated it – truly, it was an annoyance and I could do without it – but it was the only thing that kept my face hidden, and it had almost become a part of me. It felt cool against my skin. When it was on, he looked at me again. "_Merci, mon ami_," I said quietly.

He nodded, standing up. "_De rien._ Now get up. I can't very well leave you in here."

I rose to my feet with some difficulty, grasping onto the bars for aid. Toby offered his hand, but I brushed his hand away. "I can do it."

"I just…"

"I appreciate the thought, Tobias, _mon ami_, but I can do it." When I'd finally gotten to my feet, we rushed out of the cage and the closet, and as Toby checked around for people, I took my leave of him. I found a passage I'd left unlocked and descended to home.

Immediately on entering, I felt something rub against my leg. Every sense on alert, I jumped back – but it was only Molly. "You frightened me, Mol," I said, sitting on the piano bench and playing a few random chords to soothe myself. Then I gave the keyboard a good thump – that insufferable woman! "How could she do that to me, Molly? How?" The cat gave a soft "meow" and started to purr, rubbing against my leg again. I laughed. "Yeah, I thought so too."

As jovial as I felt toward my cat, it didn't change the fact that Nichole had given me reason to break my promise. I sighed. I couldn't. I turned and looked around the room. The sword I'd taken to the New Year's ball sat on a table not far away, staring me in the face, begging to be put to use once more.

I sighed. Kit would just have to forgive me.


	29. Paris: Fallen Angel

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France – 2004**_

_**Erik**_

I slept fitfully – I kept dreaming about being locked in a cage with people staring at me, poking me, jeering and laughing… It wasn't the most conducive thing to sleep. Eventually I gave up – I got up, dressed, and paced about the room for awhile, till I was certain they'd be awake. As I left, I grabbed my sword – my hand was shaking, and I wasn't entirely certain why.

I made my way up to the stage, hiding in the flies as I watched everyone assemble – apparently Nichole had called them. I could feel my knees trembling as I spotted Kit – it wasn't fair. _Why_ did the girl make me weak? I had to be strong to do this, and I was frightened of what she would do to me…

Finally – I spotted Nichole stomping onto the stage. "All right, you little shit! Chagny, get over here!" As I watched Kit walk toward her, I felt my blood boil – _no one_ spoke to her that way.

My eyes narrowed at Nichole. "Oh, you will pay."

"Where is he?"

"Where's who?" She sounded so innocent, so sweet…

"Stop it, Erik," I whispered. "_Merde_, man, you need strength."

I watched Nichole's face turn red. "_You let him out last night! I know you did!_" She raised her hand and slapped Kit across the face – I heard the strike from even where I was, followed by several gasps.

That was it.

I reached out and grabbed a rope. Time may have sapped me of any acrobatic skills I once had – not running around the labyrinth for more than a century hadn't helped – but the hell with it. I'd try anyway. Among screams from below – from the dancers, who saw me first – I slid to the stage behind Nichole, screaming in fury, seething. Without even allowing her to fight, I drew my sword and swung it. It caught her in the shoulder first, and I pulled down – it ripped into her body, spraying blood everywhere. She didn't even have time to scream. The entire stage went silent. As she fell, I saw Kit – a stunned look on her face, Nichole's blood on her cheeks.

I was immediately horrified at what I'd done.

I drew my sword out of Nichole, pointing it around at the others – for show alone. Using the same rope I'd come down, I climbed back into the flies as they started to stir – moving toward Nichole's body. I ran toward Box Five, using the winding passages I'd built – and once I was there, I ripped the hidden door open and ran through, running as fast as I could toward the lake. I was only safe beyond it – they'd kill me if they…

They couldn't kill me. I slowed down, remembering this. Then I sped up again – I might be immortal, invulnerable, but Kit wouldn't care. She'd certainly try to kill me.

When I got there, I threw the sword into a corner, scaring Molly. I didn't care. I started pacing again, bringing my hand up to run it through my hair in annoyance and worry – but I didn't. It was covered in blood. They both were.

"I'm a bad man." I sat down on the piano bench, shaking. "I'm…oh, _Dieu dans le ciel_, what have I done?"


	30. Paris: Seething Shadows

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**Paris, France – 2004**_

I stood, not believing, as I watched several of the stagehands lift Nichole's body from the stage, carrying it away. I was stunned. I could feel her blood on my face – drying, disgusting, reminding me of what he'd just done. I could feel Meg's hand on my shoulder. "Child, you need to come with me." I heard a noise overhead and instinctively looked up – and the whole scene replayed…

…_He slid down a rope, landing behind Nichole, screaming. Drawing his sword, before she could react, he swung it and caught her in the shoulder. He pulled – it tore into her, and I felt something spray across my face. She fell, and I saw him – he looked angry at first. He spotted my face. For a split second, his expression turned to horror…_

"Kit!" I looked up at Meg. "Let's go, child…"

Without thinking, my hand pushed her away, and I started running toward the dormitory. I'd make him pay. Once inside the dorm, I shut the door – I heard Meg's footsteps behind me. Running to the grate, I pulled it open and slipped inside quickly, pulling it shut behind me only seconds before I heard the door open. "Kit! Kit, where are you?" I didn't answer her – but I stayed for a moment, just to make sure she'd leave. I saw the other girls come in after her.

Margery spoke first, looking around. "I swear I saw her dash in here, Mom."

"But she…she does not seem to be here," Perrie said slowly.

Meg herded the dancers back out of the room. "She probably headed for the roof…she might have slammed the door to confuse us."

Once they left, I breathed a momentary sigh of relief. I had to get to Erik. Running down into the labyrinth, I could feel my hands clenching into fists. He'd pay – oh yes – he'd pay for breaking his word to me.

I reached the lair. The gate was up. I walked inside – I spotted him immediately, sitting on the piano bench, shaking and muttering. "I'm a bad man…I'm a bad, bad man…"

I looked around. The nearest object to me was a book. I picked it up and threw it at him – it caught him squarely in the shoulder, and he turned to me, his eyes wide. "Kit, I…"

"Don't you say a word!" I screamed. He stood up, facing me. "You _promised_ me! You _promised_, and you couldn't even keep it!" I fell to my knees, sobbing. After a moment, I felt his arms around me – I tried to pull away, but didn't really want to.

"Kit, I'm…oh, I'm sorry. I couldn't let her get away with…"

"You didn't have to _kill her_." I looked at him. "The world has other ways of dealing with bad people, Erik – if they find you now, they'll…"

"They'll what?" He wasn't smiling, but I could almost hear one in his tone. "They can't kill _me_, Kitten, you know that."

"I know, but they have ways of dealing with you, too. Like locking you up so I can't ever see you again."

"And do you think it would do any good? I'm immortal till you free me."

"They'll figure you have more time to suffer for what you did."

"I've already suffered for what I've done." He tipped my head up to look at him. "I won't kill anyone again – I promise."

"That's what you said last time."

"This time I'll keep it – no matter what it means, all right?" Before I could answer him, I heard footsteps outside the lair. Erik must have heard them, too – he leapt to his feet, running for a back corner of the lair and picking up his sword. I looked to the front – it was only Toby.

Toby?!

He was red-faced and out of breath, carrying a backpack. I looked around – Erik looked just as stunned as I imagined I did. "Tobias, _mon ami_, what on Earth…?"

Toby panted for a moment, then looked at Erik as I rose to my feet. "They're coming for you, dude." He took my hand. "You and I should get back upstairs – they'll catch us if we stay here." He started pulling me toward the lake, obviously intending to take me out of the lair. I heard a low growl from behind me.

"_I am your Angel…_" I turned – so did Toby. Erik was standing in the middle of the lair, and…he was almost pouting. "Don't leave me here."

"I'm not going to…" Toby said, but I broke away as he started and ran to Erik, embracing him. "Kit, come on, they'll be here any minute!" When he realized I wasn't leaving Erik, he sighed. "Fine, fine. Erik, they fired me. We need to get you out of here, you know that, right?"

He nodded. "Wait…they what?"

"They dismissed me. J. Pierre saw me let you out of the cage the other night – he didn't like it. So I'm gone – and we need to get you very gone as well." He opened his backpack, pulling out some clothes. "Much as you might hate it, you've got to put these on and lose the mask. If you're going to escape, you've got to look like you're actually from this time, not the 1870s. And the mask, well…that'll give you away even in a crowd."

Erik stared at the clothes Toby held, wrinkling his nose. There was a pair of jeans, a black shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt. There was a long pause. "I'm not wearing those!"

"You have to, Erik. This isn't open for negotiation."

"I'm not wearing those clothes, Tobias."

"They'll put you in prison if they catch you, you know. The curse will never be broken – since you're immortal, they can keep you in there for as long as they want." He sighed. "A hundred years is nothing to you, right?"

Another long pause, and he sighed. "Fine, you've made your point. Give me those."

I turned away while Erik changed – I could hear Toby helping him, listening to the various groans and grunts coming from behind me as Erik changed. "I think these are too small."

"They'll fit, just keep…pulling…" The quick rasp of a zipper and two exasperated sighs followed. "See, I told you. Pessimist."

"Well, what do you want from me?" Erik's voice was muffled – I assumed he was pulling on the sweatshirt. "Kit, you can turn around now, I'm…well, I'm dressed, at least. I'm not sure this is what you'd call _decent_, though – I look like a beggar…"

"You look normal for this time," Toby said, sighing.

I turned around. Toby was helping Erik lace up a pair of sneakers, but when I caught sight of him, I gasped. He looked so different in jeans – in profile, on the good side of his face, I could have mistaken him for just another member of the crew. "Oh, my God…Erik, you look…"

"Disgusting, I know." He looked at me, wrinkling his nose. As he stood upright, I drew in another breath. The mask was still on, but it didn't detract from his appearance. It actually still went with the outfit.

"No, you look good." I hugged him. When I looked up at his face, he was smiling. But before he could say anything, the smile dropped.

"Do you hear that?"

I listened for a moment. Now I could hear what he must have heard a minute before – the sound of at least a hundred pairs of feet tramping down the stairs above the lair. "Oh, no…"

Toby stood up – he was pale. "Erik, there's no way out. They'll cut off the only…"

But Erik was already walking toward a curtained archway near the back of the lair. "Kit, grab Molly, will you?" Feeling something small and warm rubbing against my leg, I reached down and picked up Molly, petting her. Erik turned to us. "Tobias, _mon ami_, do you honestly think I'd let myself be trapped in here?" He pulled the curtain back – behind it was a mirror. Before I could speak, he smashed it – the glass fell away, and I saw a passage behind it. "Now quickly, through it. Just keep running."

I headed into the passage as I saw Erik dash to the piano for something. "Erik, come on!"

"I'll be along! Go!"

"Not without you!" Toby yelled from just behind me.

He stuffed several things into the pockets of his jeans, then turned and ran toward us. "Go! Now!" I could hear splashing – they were crossing the lake. As he entered the passage, he pulled the curtain over the opening. Toby was already running. "Kit, run, damn it!" He took my shoulder and pushed me forward, careful not to hit Molly. She mewed quietly at him.

We caught up to Toby at the end of the passage. "Erik," he muttered. "It's a dead end." He tapped on the wall in front of him.

Erik stepped in front of him and pushed on the wall. It swung out. "Tobias, _tu es vraiment stupide_." He stepped out of the passage, and we followed. We were in the chapel – the only part of the old theatre that had survived enough to be restored. "Well, Toby, are we leaving?"

Toby sighed. "We don't have a choice. You have to get out of Paris." He went to the chapel door.

Erik looked at me, taking the mask off. "I'm leaving two prized possessions of mine in your hands – I expect you'll take care of them, _non_?" I nodded, and he put the mask in one of my hands. Molly immediately put a paw on it, but didn't start batting it around or anything. "She'll be good. She'll do whatever you tell her, and maybe being up here, her system will get back on track. Being down in the lair did mess it up a bit…"

"Erik, no time," I said. "You have to go."

"Right." He cleared his throat. "I'll send for you, when it's safe. I will – I promise."

"I know."

Toby ran back down into the chapel. "We've got company – they're coming back up." He looked at Erik. "You got another way out of here other than walking out the front door?"

Erik walked to the other side of the chapel and pushed a small window out – it swung out into another small passage. "It leads to a grate that opens into a back alley – it's where Antoinette brought me in the first time, and where Meg brought me in this time." He turned back to us. "You don't think I'd leave myself trapped, do you? I'm too smart for that – I knew it was just a matter of time." He helped Toby climb out, handing the backpack out to him, then he turned to me. "Quickly, give us a kiss." I kissed him – when we parted, he smiled. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

He reached down and scratched Molly behind the ears quickly, then climbed out the window and shut it.

My Phantom was gone.


	31. Paris: Christine's Heart

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

__

* * *

_**Paris, France – 2004**_

I trudged up to Meg's room, carrying a quietly mewing Molly and the mask. When she spotted me, she dragged me into her room, shutting the door. "Where is he? What happened? I led them astray so that he wouldn't be captured, and you let them take him? You ungrateful…" She broke off. "You are such an ungrateful little child, I'm surprised. Surely your parents didn't raise you this way, and God knows I've tried to…"

"Meg," I cut her off. "He's gone." I put Molly on the floor – she wandered around a bit, and I noticed Meg had brought up her bed, carrier, dishes and toys.

"What happened?"

"He escaped with Toby, and he left his mask behind." I was crying now, turning the mask over in my hands. "He's gone, Meg."

She embraced me and stroked my hair. "Child," she said, her tone much changed. "It's all right. He'll come back. He wouldn't leave you for good." I knew she was right.

She let me watch a little television in the privacy of her room – it was all over the news, as unbelievable a story as it seemed – the Phantom of the Opera had murdered Nichole Firmin in her own theatre. I tried to find something halfway decent to watch, but every station had the same thing – the news story at the theatre.

I pet Molly. "Come on, Toby – get him out of here."

__

* * *

_**Paris, France – 2008**_

_Into the  
light again  
he will  
not dare…  
for those  
who wish him ill  
do still  
dwell there…_

_And with  
him, I will  
sing yet again…  
and my  
duet with  
the Phantom of the Opera  
will never end…_

As long as four years seemed, it was a trifle. Now twenty-one, I was awaiting the final blow. It didn't take long, either. Once J. Pierre opened the seats in Box Five for sale to the public, and once the seats actually began to sell, Paris knew – the Phantom of the Opera was gone for good. The theatre's intake began to suffer, and finally one day, J. Pierre called the entire theatre for a meeting.

"It's over," he began. "Due to the loss of the Phantom, the theatre has lost its popularity. We have no choice. We must close down the Opéra Populaire."

Luckily, most of our problems weren't problems – most of us had already been offered jobs at other theatres. The dancers – including Meg – and myself would be going to New York. We'd been summoned specially by the owner – apparently also the artistic director, a young man by the name of E. Christian Muhlheim – who had seen us during a brief stay in Paris. I wasn't to dance – I had been summoned to his theatre to sing. Erik would certainly be proud of me.

We left two days before the doors of the Opéra Populaire closed permanently. I made sure Molly was comfortable – she had plenty of yarn and she'd be taken care of on the flight – and we raced through the airport to catch our flight.

As France disappeared behind us, I grew more and more tense. How would Erik find me in New York? Then I relaxed – he had his ways. But diva or no, I wasn't entirely sure this was for the best. I took out my iPod and listened to some _Phantom_ for awhile.


	32. NYC: You Have Come Here

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA – 2008**_

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to John F. Kennedy International Airport…" I looked toward the front of the cabin – the flight attendant was speaking. I looked out the window at the rapidly-approaching terminal. I could feel my stomach tying itself into an uncomfortable knot – I didn't want to be here. I wanted to go back to Paris, or even London – somewhere Erik would be certain to look for me.

We were met at the baggage claim by a young woman holding a sign that read "Giry." She didn't look much older than me – perhaps thirty, at the most. "Madame Giry, Ah presume," she said, coming over toward us. I stared at her for a moment – her accent baffled me. "Mah name is Sophia Montpelier – I've been sent to personally escort you and your dancers to Muhlheim Hall." She showed Meg some official-looking papers, and Meg seemed satisfied.

We collected our bags and followed Sophia out to the parking lot – a large bus was waiting for us. "Sophia," Meg said, "just how far away from here is this theatre?"

"Oh, it's only in Manhattan – we're in Queens now. Shouldn't be too bad a ride over – the traffic didn't seem too bad today." She was grinning as she loaded our things into a cargo hold. I insisted on keeping Molly's carrier – the poor dear still looked terrified from the flight. We piled onto the bus, and Sophia talked to the driver while I made Molly more comfortable – she was mewing almost hysterically. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I leaned my head against the back of the seat. It was time for a nap – I hadn't slept the entire flight over. I was too nervous about my new job – now that I was finally in New York, I figured I could get a ten-minute nap before we got to the theatre.

After two minutes sitting in New York traffic, I knew a nap would be impossible.

The cars were bumper-to-bumper as far as I could see out my window. We were moving, but it felt like only about six inches at a time. I started to lean over toward Meg, but noticed her window was open – she was almost leaning out of it, and I could hear the sounds from outside.

_HONK!_ "Move it!"

"Watch it, ya bum!" _HONKHONK! HONNNK!_

We started to move again. _BA-WAAAH!_ I looked up front – the driver was leaning out his window and shaking his fist. "Go back ta Joysey, ya schnook!" He turned around. "Welcome to New York, ladies."

I leaned my head against my seat again, listening to the horns outside.

_HONK!_

_WAH-WAAH!_

_WHOMMM!_

I sat up. "Meg, what is going on out there? It sounds like a riot."

"It is." She was rubbing her head. "I didn't know this city would be so noisy."

It felt like hours before I could see any difference in the landscape – Sophia told us it was only thirty minutes, but it still felt like two hours of listening to honking horns and screaming drivers. When we crossed into Manhattan, Sophia turned to us. "We're almost there. Just a bit longer now." After about ten more minutes, the bus pulled up in front of a large building – it looked like a theatre, all right, but there was another building attached to the back of it. "All right, ev'rybody out." I left Molly's carrier with John, the driver, who promised to take care of her, and followed Sophia and the others into the lobby.

The interior of the theatre's lobby was amazing. But before I had time to look at everything, Sophia was leading us through a set of doors into the auditorium. At first glance, all I could see was that it was huge. I heard music – someone hit a sour note, and the music stopped at once.

"How much clearer does the music have to be for you?!" I recognized that voice at once – Freya Reyer. I smiled as I spotted her in the pit, screaming at the orchestra. Kerstin was at the piano – I heard it still tinkling away over Freya's screaming.

Sophia led us up the center aisle. "This way – they're expectin' y'all." We walked onto the stage, and I spotted two men – one had his back to us, the other turned slightly toward us as we started toward them. As we got closer, both of them turned to us, and I grinned. "My, my…I can't get away from you, can I?"

He sauntered over to me, leaving Sophia gaping. "No, Kit, you can't." We hugged.

"Despite it all, I missed you, Sean." We laughed.

"So, what are you now? Prima ballerina?"

I stepped back from him. "No, Sean, I'm…"

I was distracted by the sound of chuckling from the other side of Sean. I looked toward the sound – the other man was laughing quietly. "Well, Sean – you seem to know my diva quite well. I would assume working with her for so long in Paris has led to this…?"

"Oh…well, sort of," Sean stammered. He looked around at the dancers and me, then gestured to the man. "Ladies, this is E. Christian Muhlheim – he owns the theatre, and he's the artistic director."

I looked at him. He didn't look so much older than me – maybe about thirty-five or so. He cleared his throat to speak, and I noticed that his voice had a pleasant quality to it, a very…familiar…soothing quality. "Welcome to my theatre. I trust you will all be comfortable here, as I'm certain many of you already know each other." He was friendly, too. I was relieved – a friendly man, I could work for. No more bosses like J. Pierre or – perish the thought – Nichole. "Where is my new ballet mistress?" Meg stepped forward and extended her hand. "I hope I have this right, and forgive me if I don't," Christian said, "but your name is Madame Meg Giry?"

"_Oui, monsieur_," Meg said.

Christian grimaced slightly. "Please, Madame," he said gently, taking her hand in a gesture of greeting, "never Monsieur. I spent most of my life in France, and now absolutely abhor the title. Please feel free to call me Christian."

Christian…the name echoed in my head as the dancers were introduced to him. When he had met all the dancers, Christian's eye turned on me. "And this lovely young lady who knows my tenor so well…my new soprano, Christine Daaé-Chagny." I nodded, trying desperately not to faint. His eyes were making me weak… I shook myself – I couldn't think about that. He took my right hand in his, and bent down slightly to brush his lips against the back of it with a small bow. He was truly a gentleman. For the first time – I was certain it would not be the last – I noticed how pale his skin was compared to mine. He looked up at me, and noticed my strange expression. "Yes, Miss Chagny? Something wrong?"

I didn't even have time to register – or wonder – how he knew I hated the Daaé in my name. "You're so pale," I said. Immediately, I realized my error, especially when I caught sight of Meg's killer Look. "I apologize," I said quickly, over the scattered giggles. "I did not mean to offend…"

But Christian was one of the few who were laughing. "No harm in the observation," he said. "I don't get out tanning much, as you can imagine. I have a theatre to run, along with many apartment houses and restaurants as well, all spread across the city. I do most of my traveling around New York shaded in a car. I don't get much sun."

"That makes sense," I said quietly. "I…I apologize, again…"

"Oh, there's no need for that," he said. "I probably should get out and tan once in a while – it can't hurt." He started to lead me toward the piano onstage, and I saw Kerstin smiling at me. "Now, if I may be so bold as to ask – your tutor, who was he? Who taught you to sing?"

I giggled as I heard sighs behind me. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Please, indulge me." He grinned at me. "Please."

"All right." I heard the sighs get louder, but I ignored them. "The Phantom of the Opera." I expected screams, I expected people to rush for the exits. I half expected Christian to jump away and shout that I was psychotic and would never sing in his theatre.

What I did not expect was his laugh. "The Phantom of the Opera? Everyone knows that's just a Paris myth."

"No sir, I assure you that the legend is true. The Phantom of the Opera not only existed, but he still exists to this day. Sort of a curse put upon him long ago by a member of my family."

At this, I really expected him to jump away and shout that I was nuts, but again he surprised me. "So…the stories coming out of Paris were all true, by your account, then…all those men coming forward and claiming to be the Phantom…did you prove them all false?"

"I did," I said. "But how…?"

He chuckled. "The stories made it onto the news stations over here. I found them very interesting. I've always been interested in the legend." He cleared his throat. "But here I am, prattling on when you should be seeing the rest of the place before you rehearse. I'm sorry." He turned toward Sophia. "Sophia, you're supposed to stop me when I do things like that."

"Ah do apologize, Mr. Muhlheim."

He sighed as I walked back toward Meg. "For God's sake, Sophia – call me Christian!"

She grinned at him. "Oh, well, I could never do that, sir – it's not at all polite." She led us off the stage, pointing out things as we went. We were shown around the auditorium, the flies, all of backstage. Then we were taken to the top floor and shown around all of the boxes, with the noticeable exception of Box Five. It had been built, of course, but it was strictly off-limits to those not invited into it.

Box Five was E. Christian Muhlheim's private box.


	33. NYC: For One Purpose And One Alone

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA – 2008**_

Sophia grinned at us. "If anyone would like to go inside, I can call down to Mr. Muhlheim and see if it would be all right…?"

From the back of the group, I heard a quiet, accented voice speak up. "But what does Mr. Muhlheim intend to do if _le Fantôme_ should want to sit in Box Five?"

"Well, I assure you, the Phantom isn't here – but if he did come to a show, there is a special chair in Box Five just for him, on Mr. Muhlheim's instructions." She started away, toward a stairwell. "Shall we?"

I lingered for a moment. Erik not watching me from Box Five – the thought unnerved me. "Kit, child!" Meg's voice called. I turned and looked. "Are you coming or not?"

Returning to the lower levels, we passed by the dressing rooms, including mine – I spotted it by the nameplate on the door – and after a moment, we went through another door and were standing in another lobby. I spotted a small group of people standing to one side near what seemed to be the front desk. "Welcome to your new home," Sophia said.

I looked up – the ceiling was at least ten feet above my head. "Wow," I breathed.

"This is Hall Tower. This apartment building houses the entire resident cast and crew of Muhlheim Hall. Your things have already been brought to your rooms." She motioned toward the group of people, and they started toward us. "These people are from the crew – they'll take y'all to your rooms." We started toward them, but as I followed Meg and Margie, Sophia stopped me. "I'm to escort you to your room personally. Mr. Muhlheim insisted on it." I followed her to a lift, and as we stepped inside, I noticed it only had two buttons: PH1 and PH2. Sophia pressed the button for PH1, and the doors shut. "It'll be a few minutes – the first penthouse is the thirty-fifth floor."

"Uh…the first penthouse?"

"Yep. It's yours."

"And is it…" I gulped. "Is it the _entire_ thirty-fifth floor?"

"Yes, it is." She smiled at me, her reflection glinting off the mirrored doors. "Mr. Muhlheim said he wanted to give his diva everything." Her head tilted slightly to the side. "Apparently that meant a penthouse as well – even young Mr. Davidson isn't so lucky."

I stared at her. "Then…whose is the second penthouse?"

"Oh, it's Mr. Muhlheim's private residence. He doesn't like to be far away from the theatre."

I looked around the lift – it was opulent, to be sure, and obviously carefully maintained. "Is Mr. Muhl…Christian…is he very rich?"

Sophia laughed. "Oh, yeah. Beyond your wildest dreams – the man could buy half of New York on a whim if he wanted to."

I turned away from her and stared at my feet – my sneakers were so worn I could see my socks through the side. So rich…I couldn't even begin to dream of wealth on such a level. As I thought, her words echoed in my head. "_…he wanted to give his diva everything…_"

My head snapped up. His diva…give his diva everything…the words were familiar… As I tried to place where I had heard them before, the lift came to a halt. I looked up at the indicator light above the door – PH1 was lit. "I guess we're here," I whispered.

She looked at me – I hadn't realized my voice would carry so loudly in the small space, and I supposed I should have. "Yep, sure looks like it." The doors opened, and we stepped into a hallway. There was only one door on the right wall – I assumed it led to the penthouse. Sophia stopped just in front of it, unlocking it and then handing me the key. "Welcome home, Miss Chagny." I stepped inside – and stopped, breathless, just on the threshold.

It was large, for certain – the entire thirty-fifth floor was mine – but the size alone wasn't what had stopped me. The furnishings had – all far too posh, far too opulent for me. I turned around. "Sophia, I…these things…"

"Mr. Muhlheim handpicked them for you. Real imported Italian leather, that sofa – at least, I think it is."

"But it's…all of these things…they're so…" I turned back inside the penthouse. "It's too much, Sophia. I can't…" I silenced, staring at a glass case on the far wall by a large television. Slowly, I walked toward it, trying to keep my composure. I touched the cold glass, staring at what lay behind it.

It was a half-mask. Not _the_ mask, not Erik's mask – that was still safely packed in my things – but certainly a halfway decent replica. In front of it lay a frosted glass rose – surrounding it, all manner of Phantom paraphernalia, from glass snow globes to a miniature diorama of Erik's lair. I giggled, staring at the wax figurine of Erik playing at his piano – and then squinted to better see the figures.

There was a tiny cat next to the piano bench. My eyes went wide – then I calmed down. Molly had been all over the news, poor dear. Everyone even remotely interested in the legend now knew she'd been Erik's companion down in the lair – I shouldn't have been surprised that Christian would find a way to have her incorporated into the diorama.

"Is there anything else you need, Miss Chagny?"

I turned; Sophia was still standing in the doorway, staring at me. "Uh, no, no, Sophia…I'm good, thank you." She nodded, then left, shutting the door as she did.

I walked into a side room – it was my bedroom, and not nearly as large as the outer room I'd just left. Sighing and smiling, I sat down on the edge of the bed. Molly was curled up on the foot of it, sleeping. I scratched behind her ears, listening to her purr quietly for a few minutes.

"…_I am your Angel…_"

I stood up, looking around the room frantically. That voice…here… "No. No, you're not here." I shut my eyes. "You're not here. I'd know if you were here and I haven't seen you yet, so please, Erik, don't do this. Not this time. No more Phantom!"

I waited a few minutes, but the voice did not come again.

* * *

We were to meet Christian on the stage the next morning. When I arrived, he was speaking hurriedly to a man I hadn't seen before, and he seemed about to scream. I started to walk slower – I didn't want to arrive in the middle of a shouting match. But when I was halfway there, he turned and spotted me. "Oh, Miss Chagny." He sounded relieved, and started toward me. "Good morning."

"G…good morning, Mr.…"

"Ah, ah, ah…none of that now," he said, smiling. "Far too formal for me."

"Sorry…Christian, then."

"That's better." I noticed a stack of papers in his hand seconds before he held them out to me. "I don't wish to burden you your second day here, but we do have a show to perform." He inclined his head toward the gentleman he'd been speaking with previously. "And as I've _tried_ to explain to Mr. Nehil here several times already, we're still one cast member short."

I glanced over at the man – Mr. Nehil – and immediately disliked him. He was unkempt – his hair was greasy and uncombed, his clothes weren't pressed – and he was now chatting away on a cell phone.

"So, what do we think of our mutual colleague?" I looked back at Christian – he was smiling, if a bit ironically. "You don't like him, do you?"

"No, I really don't. He's…"

"He's dirty, I know. Man disgusts me worse than I have words for." He glanced back at Mr. Nehil. "Unfortunately, I'm forced to put up with Darius, even though I'd rather not."

"Darius?"

"Sorry…that's his first name." Christian looked at me. "I'd like to fire him, but unfortunately his daughter is one of the youngest and clearest sopranos in the city – she's thirteen and has a most promising career ahead of her, and he intends to make certain of that." He grimaced. "And the deal was that if I was to employ her talents, both he and his wife were to be on the payroll in singing roles as well. His wife isn't bad, but him…" He chuckled quietly – it sent a shiver up my spine. "Let's just say I'd rather be deaf."

I finally looked at the papers he'd handed me – a script for… "Wait," I said. "Are we truly performing _this_?"

He nodded. "Yes. And sadly, as I've said, we're one cast member short."

I stared at him. "Aside from extras, there's only nine principal roles in this show. And you're telling me you can only find eight people? I thought you could buy…"

"Yes, yes, buy half of New York on a whim." He sighed. "Well, unfortunately, that doesn't include actors." He walked away, back toward Darius, and now I heard screaming. I turned away and spotted Sean coming into the stage area.

"Kit! Good morning." He took my hand and kissed it. "So, that's the script? What's it for?"

I held it up for him to read, and watched his eyes go wide. "What's wrong?"

"I'm telling you right now, there's _no way_ I can play Sweeney Todd."


	34. NYC: Trust Misplaced

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA – 2008**_

By the time everyone got to the stage, only to find out our first play was _Sweeney Todd_, I could do nothing but stand back and watch. Meg's reaction was priceless.

"A _Sondheim_ musical? You intend us to perform _what_, exactly? I have _ballerinas_ here, sir, not trained chimps!"

Christian just shook his head. "I fail to see the difference." I could have sworn Meg would slap him, but she didn't. She just threw her hands up and stormed off as Christian faced the rest of us. "I assume the rest of you are at least familiar with the cast list by now, so I'll waste no time. Mr. Davidson? Are you here?" Sean waved his hand in the air. "Good. You'll play Anthony…"

There was an immediate uproar. "Wait a minute!" Sean's voice cried. "You don't honestly expect me to sit back and take that role, do you? I was told I would be playing the lead male in the shows!"

Christian's expression didn't even falter. "And yet, with that tenor-like baritone you possess, your voice is simply not suited for the role of Todd. Or do you wish to disagree, sir?" There was silence. "I thought not. Now, where is Beth?" A small girl – a teenager, I guessed, from what he'd told me about her already – stepped forward, her head held high. "Yes, good morning, Beth. You'll be Johanna."

Immediately, I wanted to strangle her. That only left two female roles – both of which were out of my range. I watched mutely as Christian rattled off a few more roles – apparently Beth's mother Lily, also Darius' wife, would be playing Lucy, leaving me the last role – decidedly an alto role. I stared at Lily for a moment – her face seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it.

"Kit? Now I know I've seen you already…where did you go?" I moved closer toward him, and he spotted me. "Ah, good – my Mrs. Lovett shouldn't be hidden in the back like that."

It took a moment before I could find my tongue. "I can't…can't play that role."

Again, his expression didn't change. "And why not? Why do all my actors suddenly seem to have a problem with the roles I've given them?" He sighed. "Fine. What's wrong with that role?"

"Her part's written for a woman with a lower voice than mine. I'm a soprano…"

"What type?"

Caught off-guard, I paused. "Excuse me?"

"What type of soprano? Most sopranos, Miss Chagny, can at least hit Middle C. Just how low can your voice go, exactly?"

I wanted to wipe the smirk off his face, but I knew he was right. "Mid…Middle C."

"Then you should have no problem singing Mrs. Lovett's role. Now everyone _kindly_ stop bitching and start learning your parts – I want you all back here in two hours ready to sing. We're already short a cast member – there's no one here excepting myself that can sing Todd's part, and I'm sure as hell not doing it – so we're going to have to…" He broke off, and for a moment I couldn't figure out why. Then I heard singing from the flies. My heart started pounding in my ears – then I calmed down enough to realize it wasn't Erik's voice. Christian turned, looking up at the flies. "Mr. Boucher?" he yelled. "Are you _quite_ through interrupting me, sir?"

An extremely familiar face peered out over a railing, grinning widely. "Sorry, Christian, but one of the backdrops told me you were short a singing cast member and I thought I might be able to help." Toby slid down a rope and started toward the group, singing "Epiphany" – perfectly on key, even without music.

When I had collected myself, and he had reached a break – to applause, of course – I raced over and threw myself at him. "Toby!" It was all I could do not to cry. "Oh, God, I'm glad to see you."

"I need to talk with you," he said quietly. "Meet me in my office backstage in five minutes."

I stared at him. "You have an office?"

"As chief stagehand, stage manager, _and_ assistant to Christian Muhlheim, yes I do." He grinned again. "My name's on the door, it'll be easy enough to spot. I'll meet you there in five minutes."

I headed backstage as Toby talked with Christian – there was no doubt in my mind that Toby would be playing the lead. There was also now no doubt in my mind that Erik had trained us both. Toby's voice was too exceptional to have been self-taught.

As soon as I'd found Toby's office, I heard running footsteps behind me. I turned – it was Toby. "Okay, so _less_ than five minutes," he said, grinning. We went inside his office, and as soon as the door closed, I started.

"Where's Erik?"

He sighed. "I was afraid you'd ask me that."

"Well stop being afraid and tell me. Where's Erik, Toby?"

There was silence for a moment. "Kit, don't kill me, all right? I took him away from Paris like I was supposed to – I brought him here, sort of. Philadelphia. We'd made plans of what to do if we got separated…I just…"

"You just what?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "I just never thought we'd need them. Kit, I…" He looked at me mournfully. "I lost Erik."

I was silent for a minute. "L…lost…you… What do you mean, you _lost_ him?"

"We'd rented a small apartment – well, I did, he stayed there with me – and I'd gone out to look for a job. We'd only been here a few weeks, and when I went back to the apartment after an interview, I found his stuff – what little there was – gone, and he'd left me a note saying he'd meet me in New York." Toby sighed. "That was almost four years ago, Kit. I haven't seen him since. I have no idea where Erik is." There was another, slightly longer pause. "I'm kind of hoping that you being here will draw him here, too."

I nearly told Toby what I'd heard the night before, but I thought better of it and kept my mouth shut. There was no need for him to know. "But…when did you come here? How long have…?"

"I came here in July of '07 – I needed a job badly and Christian was good enough to give me one. Became fast friends with him, too." Toby's radio crackled, and he took it off his belt and listened. "I…uh…I have to go," he said, putting the radio back on his belt. "You can stay here for a few if you like, get yourself composed." He stopped in the doorway, staring at me. "Kit, I…I'm truly sorry." He walked off.

I sat down in his desk chair, looking around the office. Photographs and newspaper clippings were framed and displayed on the walls. I looked closer at the one nearest the desk – it was a newspaper article, complete with photo. I stared at the photo for a moment – surely my eyes had to be deceiving me.

Toby and Christian were standing outside Muhlheim Hall – the picture was dated September 2006.


	35. NYC: Familiar

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA – 2008**_

I ran out of the office – I needed to find Toby. Racing around backstage, I couldn't find him. I headed into the apartments – but the lobby was currently in an uproar.

There was a large crowd – I couldn't see what was going on, but I spotted Meg near the back and ran toward her. "Meg, what's going on?"

She hugged me. "Oh, child, thank God."

"What's going on?"

"I came running when I heard people screaming, so I'm not entirely sure. But I think it has something to do with Christian."

I turned and stared toward the front of the crowd, but I couldn't see anything. Pushing my way toward the front, I spotted Sophia helping Christian to his feet. He was coughing fiercely – one hand was grasping his throat, massaging it. "Oh, God," I whispered.

As soon as he was on his feet, he turned to me. "I think your Phantom's here."

"What makes you say that?" I said quietly.

He coughed slightly, then stared at me for a moment before answering. "I don't know – something about the noose that just tried to strangle me from _nowhere_…maybe that." He didn't look angry, but something in his voice said he certainly wasn't happy.

"But…Christian…" I followed him as he started walking toward a door – his office. "Christian, wait."

He turned and stared at me for a moment. "Yes, what is it?"

"What did you do that would make Erik mad enough at you to try to kill you?"

For a moment, he looked confused. "Maybe he doesn't like me bossing around his diva." Before I could ask anything else, he'd gone into his office and had shut the door.

* * *

Rehearsals for the play were run by Sophia for several weeks – Christian was too on-edge to run them. Inferring only from what Sophia said – in various bits and pieces – Christian was afraid that Erik would show up at rehearsals and finish him off. I sent several messages with Sophia for Christian, trying to reassure him that I wouldn't let that happen, but he still wouldn't come to rehearsals.

The night of our full rehearsal – the night before the show went up – he finally showed, but with one slight problem. "I can't sing tonight," he wheezed the second he had our attention.

"Laryngitis?" I asked. He nodded.

The reaction was immediate. The entire cast started screaming and whining. Christian bowed his head – he seemed embarrassed. Before I could say anything, Sean's voice rang out. "_Now_ you don't wanna sing, Muhlheim? After all your big talk about everyone else's voice, now we don't even get to hear _yours_?"

I turned. "Sean, stuff a sock in it." The chattering ceased – Sean stared at me as though I'd lost my mind entirely. "Don't you think he feels bad enough already? Obviously he's been practicing so much on his own that his voice gave out – at least he's been practicing, Mr. I'm-So-Great-I-Don't-Need-Rehearsal." Now Sean's head dipped low. He'd been coming to rehearsals lately boasting that he was so great he didn't even need to be there, that he could just learn it all onstage during the show.

We ran through most of the show, with one of the crew members filling in Judge Turpin's vocals – since Christian couldn't sing and that was his part. He went through the motions, at least – lip synching when he could, but at least working on his blocking. After going through the entire play twice, Christian pronounced us ready for the show the next night – as loudly as he could without having much of a voice – and we adjourned to our rooms to get some rest.

Against my will, I suddenly found myself sharing the lift with Christian. I didn't want to make him talk – not with his voice the way it was – but I didn't want to be rude, either. Luckily, the ride was mercifully short, and we reached my floor before I could decide what to do. "Good night, Christian."

"See you in the morning," he croaked as the doors shut.

I let myself inside my penthouse and locked the door behind me. I could hear Molly mewing disconsolately from the kitchen area – she must have been hungry. I knew I was. "Coming, Mol."

* * *

An hour and a half before the show, Sophia showed me to my dressing room. It looked exactly the way I thought it would look. There was a huge vanity table on one wall of the room. Next to that was an overlarge table on which were many vases already filled with flowers. I cringed just seeing them. Everyone expected so much of me – what if I couldn't do it? What if I let them down? My eye continued around the room. In one corner was a huge closet, the door partially open so that I could see all the elaborate costumes inside. They would all have been made to fit me, of course. Next to that was a blank wall, presumably for posters of my performances and other things like that. Then, on the wall directly across from the door, there was a mirror. I walked to it, just to get a better look.

It was huge, more than twice my height. I ran my hand along the edge, where the glass seemingly met the frame. There were no seams, and I let out a breath I hadn't been aware of holding. "Thank you, Sophia." I heard the door shut, and as soon as it had, I started to get into costume.

When the call came for us to get into places, I felt my heart start beating so fast I thought it would explode. Erik's eyes wouldn't be on me tonight – I didn't think I could do it. I took a glance around the room as I started out the door – then a vase caught my eye. I walked toward it, staring. Two dozen red roses, each with a black ribbon tied about the stem – I looked frantically for a card and found it after a moment. I picked it up and read it.

_Kit, you'll be fine. I'm always with you. –Erik._

I wanted to scream, but with the audience already seated and the show about to begin, I didn't dare. Dropping the card, I raced out to the stage and found where I was supposed to be, waiting for my part to begin.

Most of the play went off fine. The first hitch came when "Pretty Women" started. As soon as Christian started singing, Toby's eyes went wide – and I could tell mine did, too. I knew that voice…I _knew_ it…but I couldn't place from where. The lucky thing is Toby didn't even miss a beat – he stayed calm and kept singing.

In the final scene, we'd arranged for a full scene change between the first and second half of that scene. So during Turpin's death, I was offstage, watching. Inexplicably, I could feel myself tearing up, even though I knew Toby and Christian were only acting. I couldn't explain why I was reacting funny, either. As my death scene came up, I could have sworn I heard Christian growl at Toby from his spot on the stage – but that could have just been my imagination.

After the final curtain call, Christian congratulated us all backstage. "Wonderful job, everyone. Now, I believe a party is in order, so I will meet everyone on the stage at…" He glanced at his watch. "Oh, wow…how about midnight?" After a few bouts of laughter, everyone agreed, and we went off to change and relax for a bit before the party.

Returning to my penthouse – I couldn't deal with the two dozen red roses from Erik right now, I was still wondering how they'd gotten there – I changed quickly, then sank down on the sofa to watch a little TV. As I did, the diorama caught my eye again, and I stared at the tiny version of Molly again. Hearing the real Molly start purring near me, I reached over to pet her. My hand stopped in midair. I started looking from Molly to the diorama back to Molly, over and over again, until I was certain.

It wasn't Molly in the diorama.

I jumped up from the sofa and stared at the tiny cat next to Erik closely. It wasn't the right coloring to be Molly. Molly was black-and-white, with a scratched-up face and torn ear. The cat in the diorama was grey-and-white, and looked fine otherwise. "Oh, _mon Dieu_," I said – then clapped a hand over my mouth, realizing what had come out of it for the first time in five years. "It's…not possible."

But it was. The cat was Ernie.


	36. NYC: Ah, Merde

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA – 2008**_

As soon as my head stopped spinning, I realized what I had to do. "Christian." I looked at the clock – it was only eleven – hopefully he'd be alone in his office. Confronting him about this in front of a group was not something I wanted to do.

I raced from the room, punching the button for the lift, shaking. How…how on _Earth_ could he have known about Ernie? It couldn't be possible…it couldn't be…

When I reached the ground floor, and Christian's office, I found the door open and him alone. "Kit," he said, "something I can…?"

I walked inside and shut the door without waiting for him to finish. "You," I said. I could barely breathe. "That…that figure upstairs, with the cat…"

"Oh, the little diorama? Do you like it?" He stood and started toward me, grinning. "Yes, I think Molly sets it off just…"

"It's not Molly."

He stopped, staring for a minute. "What do you mean, it's not Molly? Of course it is."

"No, it's not. It's…it's a different cat, and…and…" I leaned my back against the door, trying to breathe. "And where did you learn to sing like that, and why did you tell Sophia you wanted to give me everything, and…oh, God…"

Now he looked concerned. "Oh, oh, don't. You mustn't panic so, Kitten."

There was silence at his words. I stared at him. "What?" I knew my eyes were wide – he'd…no. "What did you just call me?!"

He took a deep breath, then pounded his fist on the desk. "Ah, _merde_."


	37. NYC: Office Romance

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA – 2008**_

"Erik?" My eyes felt ready to pop out of my head and roll to his feet. "Is…oh, God…" I felt frozen to the floor.

"I didn't mean to say that," he said quietly. "But apparently it wouldn't have made a difference, would it, now?" He held his arms out to me. "Kitten, I…"

Before he could finish, I was embracing him tightly. "Erik! Oh…" I heard him about to speak, as he put his arms about me, but before he could speak, I pulled away from him. "_Tu le fils d'une chienne!_ Why didn't you tell me?!" I slapped him across the face – I knew I probably shouldn't, but my better judgment was asleep right now.

He was scowling when he faced me again. "I can understand a bit of anger, but is this _any_ way to treat _me_, of all people?"

"After what you did?"

He sighed. "What I did? So what – trying to start a new life, starting over with a new face – that's an offense for which I'm liable to be struck now?" He turned away from me, probably thinking I couldn't see, and touched a hand to his injured cheek – the same cheek which had once boasted a deformity, but was now miraculously perfect. "I would have thought you would be happy to see me, Kitten. I guess I was wrong."

My lip started to tremble. "Erik…" He turned back to me. "I…oh, darling, I'm sorry." I walked to him, slowly at first, but I couldn't contain myself for long – I was too happy to see him. He was right. When I reached him, I caressed his cheek – the one I'd struck – and nuzzled his nose with mine. "How? How is it possible?"

"My looks?" I nodded. "Complicated surgery – but it was worth it."

"Why?"

"The look on your face the first time you saw me here said it all, my girl. You thought me handsome."

"I've always thought that."

He raised an eyebrow. "No, you haven't. I don't need you to lie to me – I was not attractive before I came here and I'm aware of it. Just…" He was quiet a moment. "Oh, I love you."

Before I could say anything, he kissed me – deeply – silencing me completely. I wrapped my arms around his neck, playing with his hair. I didn't want him to stop kissing me – but I knew I had to breathe at some point. "Erik," I whispered.

"Yeah?" He started on my neck, feathering kisses down my throat.

"Can we?"

He stopped. "Right here?"

"Why not? It's not like anyone's going to come in here – you said you'd meet us onstage."

He nodded. "True, I did. All right, then." He kissed me again, gentle at first, then he crushed me to him and unzipped my blouse, pulling it off. With one deft motion, he swept everything off his desk and onto the floor with a crash. I pulled my skirt off and perched on the edge of his desk as I heard the rasp of his zipper. He leaned forward, kissing me, as I heard the denim slide to the floor. Before he could react, I ripped his shirt off.

"Damn it, Erik, take me _now_."

He grinned, taking his shirt and flinging it across the room.

* * *

"Well, _this_ was a bad idea."

"Oh, don't say that."

"No, Kitten, this _was_ a bad idea."

"Aside from it being two-thirty, and the fact that Meg almost walked in on us, what exactly was so bad about it?"

He sat up, grabbed a piece of ripped fabric, and showed it to me. "I'm pretty sure this _used_ to be my shirt." I giggled. "Yes, I know you find it funny, but I can't go outside like this."

"Why not? You've only got to get to the lift."

"And just how would it look – Christian Muhlheim, the bachelor billionaire, coming out of his office shirtless and sweaty, followed by his diva, the girl engaged to…oh, what's that? The Phantom of the Opera. Yes, Kitten, that's _very_ appropriate – considering I'm not so certain I want to tell anyone else yet."

"You have to, darling. It'll get out, you know." I traced a line down his chest – it quickly turned to a heart.

"Ohh…" He reached over and held up a ragged piece of denim. "Well, that settles it. I'm not leaving my office. We've ruined my jeans, too."

I giggled again. He scowled at me. "I'm sorry, darling, but I honestly didn't think that was that rough."

He helped me dress, then kissed me as he put on his underwear and socks – the only things of his we _hadn't_ managed to destroy. He picked up the phone off the floor and dialed a number. "Sophia?…Yes, could you send Toby down here with a shirt and a pair of jeans for me, please?" There was a long pause. "No, it's probably better if you don't ask." He hung up and looked at me. "Well, best get going, Kitten. I'll be along shortly." We kissed, and I left his office.

As I stood outside, debating whether to see if the party was still hanging on or not, Toby came down the stairs, clutching a pile of clothes. "Oh, Kit. Hi."

I slapped him. "The next time you lie to me, Tobias, I will make sure you can't do it again." Then I smiled. "Better get those to him – it's pretty cold in there." I walked to the lift and pressed the button, still grinning.


	38. NYC: The Angel Returns

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA – 2008**_

I awoke to pounding on my penthouse door. "Just a minute!" Rubbing my eyes, I climbed out of bed – my body groaned. It didn't agree with me – it wanted to sleep. Pulling on a robe, I left the bedroom and crossed to the door. Sophia was there when I opened it.

"Good morning, Miss Chagny."

I yawned. "Good morning, Sophia."

"Mr. Muhlheim is having a press conference this afternoon. He…um…" She looked confused, then looked at a sheet of paper. "He 'requests the honor of your presence.' I have no idea why, so don't ask me, but he just asked that you be there."

I nodded, still sleepy. "When?"

"One o'clock."

"I'll be there." She walked back toward the lift, and I shut the door. I was wide awake now. A press conference? After he'd spent last night balking about how he didn't want to tell anyone else? I shrugged – maybe he'd thought about it and decided I was right. Or maybe it was just Erik being Erik. I couldn't tell.

I glanced at the clock – it was just about noon. "Nothing like short notice." I headed into my room to dress. Just as I finished, I heard the front door creak. My head snapped to my bedroom door – it was shut. I buckled my belt and went to my bedroom door, flinging it wide open and rushing into the outer room.

Erik was standing there – dressed in a black suit, white lace cravat, black gloves, and a billowing black cloak, his hair slicked back. His face fell when he saw me. "Oh…I wanted to surprise you."

I grinned, slouching. "I _am_ surprised. But it's missing something."

He nodded. "I came to ask for it back…that is, assuming you still have it, and I don't expect that you do."

I went into my room and opened my bedside table's drawer. Inside were several of my prized possessions. I pulled two of them out – Erik's mask and the garnet-and-emerald pendant he'd given me. Putting the necklace on, I grabbed the mask and returned to him. "Of course I still have it, darling. What would I do without it?"

He grinned as he took it from me. "I see you've taken care of it." He eyed it warily. "Well…cheers," he whispered. Lifting the mask to his face, he fixed it into place, then took his hands away. It stayed. I gasped softly, but he still heard me. "What? What is it?"

"There you are, Erik."

He smiled behind the mask. "Yes, here I am, Kitten."

I stared at him for a moment. "But…what's the point of all this?" I listened as he told me his plan – then smiled. "All right, let's do it."

* * *

Stepping onto the stage behind Erik – disguised as Christian, in jeans and a polo shirt – I stared out into the auditorium. There were at least a hundred reporters, as many cameras, and all talking. When they spotted us, the chatter stopped, and Erik took the podium. "Thank you for coming. I won't drag this out – Miss Christine Daaé-Chagny has an announcement to make." He motioned for me to take his place, which I did, and he calmly walked off the other side of the stage.

I looked out at the sea of faces, camera lights, and my mouth froze. I didn't know what to say. I knew I had to stall, to give Erik enough time to change into his Phantom outfit, but I didn't know exactly how to do it. I looked down; in the front row sat the cast and crew of Muhlheim Hall, all staring at me, waiting for me to speak. "Good afternoon." I cringed inwardly; killer opening, they'd be applauding me soon. "As you may know, many men have come forward claiming to be the still-living Phantom of the Opera. All of these claims have been proven false. However, you are here today because another man has come forward, also claming to be the Phantom. I have talked with him, and I can say without a doubt that he is, truly, the Phantom." I turned to where Erik had gone off – he stood in the wing, fully dressed, and waiting for me to cue him out. I cleared my throat. "Ladies and gentlemen…the Phantom."

He walked out of the wing, toward me, and I heard the crowd gasp, then fall completely silent. When he reached me, he took my hand and brushed his lips against it. "Marvelous," he whispered, low enough that the microphone didn't pick it up.'

From the back of the auditorium, I heard someone shout. "_Unmask him!_"

"Yeah, let's see his face!"

Immediately, it was a frenzy of screaming – calls to take his mask off, calls to leave it on. I stared at him, wide-eyed. "I…I'm sorry…"

He stepped up to the microphone, and when the screaming had subsided, he reached his hand up to his mask and pulled it off. The gasping came again. "Yes. My name is Erik Christian Muhlheim – and it is no lie. I am the Phantom of Paris legend." He fielded questions for two hours – I held his hand the whole time.

* * *

By six o'clock, it was all over the news – the Phantom of the Opera had come to New York City. "Erik," I said, handing him a soda, then sitting by him on my sofa. "Are you sure this was a good idea?"

"Yes, Kitten, I am." He popped the can open and drank deeply. "That's much better. And trust me about this – you'll see. It's much better than…"

My door flew open. Erik and I turned on the couch to see Meg standing in the doorway. "_Tu le fils d'une chienne!_ Why didn't you tell me?!"

"You know, I'm pretty sure that's what _I_ said," I murmured as Erik got up and walked toward her.

"Meg, I'm sorry…"

"Sorry? _Sorry?!_ For four years I've been worrying about you worse than that little girl…"

"Hey!" I crossed my arms.

"…and all you can say is _you're sorry?!_"

"Well what do you _want_ me to say?!" Erik roared. I curled up on the couch, shaking. "Huh? What would you like me to say, Marguerite?"

"Don't you dare…"

"Well don't you come in here presuming…"

All I could do was watch them as they started screaming at each other in French. After a particularly loud round of screams, I lay down on the cushions, my hands over my ears, terrified. When I realized that was only making their screams louder, I put my hands around me, hugging my knees to my chest.

After a few minutes, their screams stopped, the door slammed, and I heard Erik's voice. "Kit?" There were footsteps, and I felt his hand on my back. "Kit, what's wrong?" I couldn't answer him – I didn't trust my voice. "Kitten, answer me…please."

I turned and looked at him – his eyes held worry. "Can you please stop yelling at each other?"

He stroked my hair for a moment. "She's gone, my girl. She decided to leave rather than admit she was wrong." I sat up slightly and kissed him. "Ooh…what's this for?"

"Mrow." I batted my eyes.

He grinned – and his shirt went flying.


	39. NYC: The Phantom's Phantom

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – January, 2009**_

"Make a wish, Kitten," Erik said, gesturing to the cake. I stared into the lit candles, then his eyes for a moment.

"But what should I wish for? I already…"

He held up a hand. "If you so much as _think_ about going to that clichéd place of 'I already have everything I want,' I'm never celebrating another birthday with you as long as I live."

I grinned. "But it's true." As he feigned gagging, I blew the candles out, plunging us into darkness. A moment later, I felt a pair of hands about my waist, and breath on my neck. "Erik? Is that you?"

"No," he whispered. "It's the Phantom."

"Ah, so…you." He turned me about and kissed me.

"Happy birthday, my girl."

I lay my head against his chest. "This is, I think, the best birthday ever. You're here with me, you don't have to hide from the world…"

"Ah," he said, "but you still haven't seen your gift." He walked away and snapped the lights on.

"Oh, darling," I said, "can't my gift just be sex like every other holiday?"

He chuckled. "Well, I didn't say I only got you _one_ gift, did I?" He held out a small box to me. "_Bon anniversaire, Chaton_."

I smiled as I took the box and opened it. Staring back at me from the black velvet lining were a pair of earrings – two yellow gold hearts, each set with one emerald and one garnet. "Oh, Erik," I breathed. "They're beautiful."

"They're to compliment that necklace," he said, gently fingering the pendant around my neck. He grinned, cocking his head to the side. "It does look beautiful on you. I don't think I ever told you that."

I kissed him. "Cake?" He nodded, and he went to the kitchen to fetch a knife. As he came back, he stared at me. "What, Erik?"

"Do you want me to stay here tonight?"

"Do you _want_ to stay here tonight?"

"Well, I'll stay if you want me to…"

"Darling," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder as he sat to cut the cake. "If you want to stay, then stay."

He cut the cake, serving us each a piece. "Hmm," he said as he swallowed his first bite. "I think I will stay tonight. It's your birthday, after all."

I smiled. "Thank you." We abandoned our cake on the table as he started kissing me.

* * *

As I walked onto the stage the next morning, Sophia handed me a script. "Before you read any of it, Erik wants you to know he's succumbing to popular demand."

I looked at her, puzzled. "He doesn't take orders from anyone."

"Yeah, I know that. I tried to _remind_ him of that. But he thinks it'll be cool or something." She walked away, shaking her head.

I stared at the cover of the script before my eyes finally focused on the title enough to read it…and even then, I wasn't sure I was reading it right. Not till I heard Beth's scream from the other side of the stage was I certain. "_Phantom of the Opera?_ What part am _I_ supposed to play?"

Erik finally emerged – from wherever he'd been hiding, probably his office – and started answering questions before they were asked. "First of all, no one's going to bitch at me over this. The cast is my decision and mine alone – if you don't like your role, find somewhere else to work." He looked around. "He isn't here yet…damn it. Sophia, go find out where our import is, please." She ran out. "Now, where was I?…oh, right. Roles." He picked up a clipboard and started rattling off names. "Darius, my friend, you'll be playing Firmin – at special request of your wife, no less." Erik cast a sidelong glance at Lily.

Suddenly, it hit me. I nudged Margery – she was standing right next to me. "Does Lily look familiar?"

She looked. "Yeah…that nose…where have I seen her nose before?" I stared at her. "Kidding. But seriously, she does look…"

"I think she was related to Nichole." I watched her eyes, and listened to Erik.

"Margery? Where are you?" She waved at Erik. "Ah, good. You'll be playing your mother."

"What?" she and I cried simultaneously.

"Did I stutter? You're playing Meg Giry." He looked stoic. "Try not to have too much fun with the role. She was quite the stuck-up little thing."

"Hey!" came Meg's voice from the back. "You weren't exactly Mr. Available yourself, Erik."

"Speaking of Meg, you're playing _your_ mother." He was silent for a moment, and even from where I stood, I could see that his eyes had glazed over – he was lost in thought. After several moments, he continued. "Toby, _mon ami_, where are you?"

"Up here, dude." We looked up – Toby was in the flies. "You need me for something?"

"You'll be pulling double duty, I'm afraid – I need you to sing."

Toby sighed. "Well, I can't say no – you kind of did train my voice. What do you need from me?"

"You'll be managing the stage and the stunts, _and_ I need you to play Joseph Buquet."

Toby giggled. "Buquet? You're joking, right?"

"No, why would I be?"

"Well, you're having Firmin's relative-by-marriage play him, you're having the Giry girls play their mothers…" He shrugged. "Guess it's only fitting I'm playing my relative."

I grinned. I should have known.

Erik shrugged. "You're not alone." He turned and looked at me. "I'm sorry. I need you to play Christine."

I sighed, walking toward him. "Who's playing that little sissy prick she called a husband?"

"Sean." He looked at Sean before looking back at me – Sean was currently jumping up and down. "Why?"

"And who, may I ask, is going to play our Phantom?" I continued without answering him.

He grinned. "I am, of course."

I ran my hand down his chest. "Then fine. I'll play your Christine."

Just as I agreed, Sophia returned with a young man in tow. "Erik, he's here."

"Ah, Eliot!" Erik said. "Come on in, join the party, my friend."

I stared at Eliot for a moment. "Oh, my God…" As he was enveloped in a group hug, I looked at Erik. "You brought Eliot Piroleya here. I assume there's a reason."

"He's our Piangi. No one else had the voice." He grinned at me. "At least give me credit where it's due, Kitten. Christian Muhlheim couldn't bribe someone off the street to come act in his show. But the Phantom?" He laughed. "They're lining up around the _block_ to get in here."

* * *

A week later, we were rehearsing "The Mirror (Angel of Music)" when Erik started getting frustrated. "This is absurd!" he screamed, picking up a roll of gaffer's tape and throwing out into the auditorium. "I _never_ had trouble with this before!"

"Yeah, thanks for throwing that…kind of needed it up there, you dick," I heard Toby call from the back of the auditorium.

Freya stood off to the side, staring at him for a second. Among her usual duty of conducting, she was also directing the piece. "Erik? Might I make a suggestion?"

"Yes, of course."

"Why don't you try to sing it like Michael Crawford did when he…"

From his reaction, I would have thought Freya had just told him the apartment building had exploded. "_What?!_" he roared. Everyone started backing up – except Freya and me. "Crawford? That hack?"

I gaped at him. "Erik, what…?"

"I _hate_ Crawford. He absolutely _sucked_ at portraying me. Flat-out sucked."

"Well, to be fair, darling, no one knew you were alive…"

I heard Meg cough from behind me, and turned. "My, uh…my dancers were _the_ dancers in the original production. But I didn't dare say anything about Erik – they wouldn't have believed me anyway."

As I gaped at her, I heard Erik speak again. "I will _not_ sing it like any failure of an actor to play this role before me. I'm singing it like me – if it _kills_ me, I'm singing it like me."

I turned to look at him – as I did, the lights above him shook. "Erik…!" As I moved toward him, the lights fell – and he dove and pushed me back.

We stared at the downed lights for a moment, then he took me by the shoulders and shook me. "What were you thinking?!"

"I…"

"I'm _immortal_," he hissed. "That would have hurt a bit, granted, but not killed me. It would have killed you if it had fallen on you. Do you think I want that?"

"No," I said, hanging my head. He forced it back up. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said, kissing me. "Just don't do something that stupid again."


	40. NYC: Shopping

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – February, 2009**_

_**Erik**_

I didn't like being outside normally – but I didn't really have a choice today. The car had broken down – flat tire or something like that – and John had to spend most of the day changing it, so I was left with public transportation and a pair of running shoes as my only options. It was only a mile to Fifth Ave – I didn't mind walking.

I kept asking myself why, though. Why now. Why I wasn't waiting until later – _much_ later – to do this. The problem was, the answer was always the same – now seemed like the right time, and I doubted another "perfect moment" would come for years. And while I might be cursed with annoying immortality, Kit surely wasn't. I couldn't ask her to wait for me forever – she'd die trying.

I stopped in my tracks halfway down West 57th Street when I realized she would, if I let her.

Shaking my head, I continued on my way. After a moment, when I thought I'd finally cleared my head, an annoying thought occurred. In almost a month, I'd had lights nearly dropped on me, had a razor-sharp piece of metal attempt to decapitate me – even I knew it wouldn't work, just give me an annoying headache for a bit – and I'd tripped over a footstool that had been moved in my penthouse, nearly falling out the window. Now _that_ one would have hurt me, and but good – not killed me, but probably have laid me up for a bit. There was no question: someone wanted me dead. But who? Sophia didn't seem the type – and she was the only one that had constant access to me.

Well, aside from Kit. But she wouldn't want me dead.

I finally reached Fifth and found the store I wanted – the same place I'd had Kit's earrings fashioned. I shied away from the other people inside and started looking at the jewelry. Eventually, someone noticed I was there. "Ah, Mr. Muhlheim!" I smiled and nodded. "And what can I help you with today, sir?"

I grinned. "Well, it's something very special…"

* * *

I kept fingering the box on the way home. Twenty-five thousand dollars…damn. I hadn't planned to spend that much. But she was worth it.

And she'd kill me if she _ever_ found out I spent that much on her – on a single thing.

Spotting Seventh, I turned and walked down it – I didn't have far to go, either. Walking inside the apartments, I saw Kit just coming out of the elevator. Before I could duck into the theatre, she'd spotted me. "Erik!" I grinned and held out my arms – both of them – as she flew into them. "Oh, darling, where have you been?"

"Out walking," I said. Immediately, I felt guilty for lying to her – then I realized, technically, I wasn't lying. I _had_ walked there and back. "Why? Did you need me?"

"Yes, darling – I can't get my voice to do what I want it to."

I sighed softly. Always pushing it… "Are you sure your voice _wants_ to do what you want it to?" I led her into the theatre and sat at the piano, playing a few bars of a Fall Out Boy song – I didn't know how, either, I must have heard it on her iPod – before I stopped and looked at her. "Let's start with scales. Ready?"


	41. NYC: I Wish I Could Say

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – February, 2009**_

As soon as it was warm – as warm as it was going to get for February, I realized – Erik took me out walking in Central Park. "You know," he said, smiling, "I've lived here for years and only been here once."

I smiled back. "Erik," I said softly as we crossed into the park. "What's the occasion?"

"Hmm?"

"Well…you told me to dress nicely, and you're not in your usual jeans and polo shirt – what's going on?"

He gave me one of his more usual ironic half-smiles. "You're just going to have to wait until later." As we passed a building, he gestured. "Oh…see that? We have reservations there for lunch – that's why I said to dress nicely." I stared at him. "Hey, I said later. I never said how _much_ later."

We kept walking, Erik pointing things out to me every now and again. After awhile, we stopped to rest. I looked at him. "Where are we?"

He looked around for a moment. "Strawberry Fields."

I grinned. "Really?"

"Yes, _Chaton_. Why?"

I hugged him, laying my head on his chest. "Oh, darling – how did you know I loved the Beatles?"

"Um…" He stuttered for a moment. "I didn't. I just…you know, it's a nice spot…" I felt him fumbling in his pocket, and I stared at him.

"Erik, what are you doing?"

He sighed, then pulled out a small box. "I'd hoped to preface this with something, but I'll just go for it instead." He opened the box, staring at me. "Christine, _veux-tu m'épouser_?"

I put my hand to my mouth, disbelieving. "Oh, my…" He smiled – I felt my eyes welling up just staring at him. "_Oui, mon cher, bien sûr_." His eyes went wide, and after he slipped the ring onto my finger and stuffed the box back in his pocket, he lifted me up and twirled me around, kissing me. "Oh, _je t'adore_."

"Oh, Kit," he whispered, blushing. "_Je t'adore aussi_."

I stared at the ring for a moment. Yellow gold with a diamond the size of my head. "Erik, how _big_ is this?"

"Three carats." I looked up at him in shock. "Well, you were worth it, Kitten."

* * *

After a short lunch, we returned to the theatre. "Who should we tell first?" he whispered to me.

"Maybe we should tell everyone at once."

"No, I don't want to start a riot." Before he could speak again, Toby came flying out of the theatre into the apartment lobby.

"Erik…Jesus, man, don't you use your cell phone?"

"I was a little busy, Tobias," he said softly, putting his arm around my waist. I grinned as he pulled me close. "We, uh…"

Toby's eyes went wide. "What did you do, you moron?"

Erik laughed. "I asked Kit to marry me."

"Holy…" Without saying a word, Toby ran back into the theatre.

"Uh-oh," Erik said. "We'd best follow him. Come on, Kitten."

We reached the stage just in time to hear Toby shout "The boss is getting married!" The reactions were mostly positive – Erik and I grinned and blushed a lot – and then someone hit me on the back of the head. I turned – it was Meg.

"What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Nothing," I said calmly. "This is what I'm supposed to do…"

"Child, he is _never_ supposed to be happy! He's a _murderer_!"

"And?" I turned – Erik was staring at us both. "Explain yourself, Meg. I'm a human being. Yes, I've murdered people – does that automatically revoke my need, my _desire_, to be happy?" He grabbed me about the waist. "I am marrying the woman I love. Stop me, by all means – go ahead and try."

She took a deep breath, but said nothing – instead, she turned on her heel and left the stage.

"I'm so sick of that," he muttered.

"Darling, she'll come around. Just give her some time."

He grinned. "You're right. Well, back to rehearsals, my girl?" I nodded, and Erik ordered places for the final scene in the production. We practiced until well after dark – then he took me to the lift. "That was a good rehearsal," he said quietly as the doors shut. I went to press the button, but he stopped me. "Ah, ah, let me." He hit PH2 – and off we went.

"Um, darling?"

He stared straight ahead, a smile starting. "Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

He turned his head to me slowly. "I thought my place tonight, since you still haven't seen it." He took my hand and squeezed gently. "Don't you trust me?"

"Always," I said as the lift stopped and the doors opened. The hallway looked the same, but when he opened his door, I gasped. It was huge – it seemed bigger than mine, but it was also an entire floor…at least, I thought it was. After I stepped inside, I spotted a small staircase in a corner. "Erik? What's that?"

"Oh, that's to the thirty-seventh floor – it's mine, as well." He grinned. "The bedrooms are up there."

"Bed…bed_rooms_? There's more than one?" He handed me a soda, and I took a drink.

"Of course there's more than one. Where would the children sleep if there was only one?"

I nearly spit the soda at him. "_What?!_ Aren't you getting a bit ahead of yourself? Children? I mean, we're not even _married_ yet…"

"Don't panic, _Chaton_," he said, patting my back. "I didn't mean _now_. But I know you're going to want children – and we'll have them. We'll adopt, of course…"

"But Erik, then they won't be ours."

"My point exactly." I was about to argue, but I shut my mouth. I knew what he was worried about – and I didn't want to upset him.

I went to him and kissed him. "You'll make a wonderful father, I think." We sat on the sofa, and I expected him to turn on the television – but he didn't. "Erik…"

"There's something I need to tell you," he said. I shut my mouth. He took a deep, shaky breath, then started. "My family – well, you obviously know they weren't exactly a loving bunch toward me. Wouldn't have been what I was if they were. My mother – she…" He sighed. "She never wanted me. Three children was enough for her."

"Three? You had siblings?"

"Two brothers and a sister – Gregoire, Simon, and Celeste." He spat their names like he had dirt in his mouth. "My mother, Michelle – she loved them and treated them like they were royalty after I came along." He gritted his teeth. "And my father…well, I hated my father. Always acted like it was _my_ fault, the way I came out."

"Uh…what was his name?"

He looked at me for a moment, then grinned ironically. "Raoul. Now, do you wonder why I hated your ancestor before he jilted me?"

I stared at him, confused. The name – that I understood. But… "Wait. How were you _jilted_, exactly? If she denied you in the first place…"

A flush started creeping into his cheeks. "She…she didn't exactly _deny_ me…I may have exaggerated that part slightly…"

"Erik…" I could feel my pulse quickening. "What did you do?"

"She may have taken some direction from Meg's mother and…um…" He ran a hand through his hair. "I _may_ have slept with her."

"_Oh, for the love of God!_" I jumped off the couch and stared at him. "Please be joking!" He shook his head, his face in his hands. "All right, any _other_ bombshells you'd like to drop on me?"

He nodded. "I might have only been sixteen at the time, but…" He sighed. "I slept with Meg's mother, too. I…" He started breathing heavily. "There's a distinct possibility I _might_ be Meg's father, but it's doubtful."

I could feel myself shaking. "You…you…you said I was the _only_ woman who ever loved you! The only one who was _brave_ enough to sleep with you! And now you're telling me I'm actually the _third one?!_" I pulled off my engagement ring and threw it at his head before he could speak. "Meg was right – you don't deserve to be happy. You _deserve_ to be immortal and lonely!" Before he could react, I was running for the door and in the lift.


	42. NYC: Out Of Control

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – April, 2009**_

Seeing him every day in rehearsals was troubling. He kept staring at me like a forlorn child – like I was supposed to simply forgive him and take him back. But I couldn't. He'd lied to me – he'd told me I was the only one, and there'd been two others. I simply wanted him to apologize for lying to me, and then I'd take him back. But day after day, he just kept trying to beg me to come back to him – I either told him to go away and come back with a real apology, or just entirely ignored him.

The play went up in mid-April. On our premiere night, I watched from my penthouse window as people started lining up around the block to get inside – press, celebrities, supermodels, even politicians were clogging Seventh Ave, trying to get inside the theatre. I smiled, knowing most of them wouldn't grace the audience with their presence tonight – Erik didn't want too many celebrities at once inside the theatre. He feared a riot would break out should rivals be in the auditorium at the same time. That, and if something should go wrong with an audience packed full of famous people… I shuddered.

Eventually, I made my way down to my dressing room. I didn't really want to change into Christine's costume, but I knew I had no choice. Mad at him or not, I'd promised Erik I'd play her without a complaint. Changing into my costume for the opening scene, I stared at myself in the mirror. As I did, I noticed something on the vanity. Going over, I spotted a single red rose, with a black ribbon about the stem. There was a card – I picked it up.

_Kit, I'm sorry I never told you about them. I should have…and not on the same night I asked _you_ to be my wife. That was cruel of me and I'm so sorry. –Erik._

My heart leapt into my throat – then returned to my chest. A _note_?! He was apologizing in a _note_? I shook my head, then crumpled the note into a ball and threw it across the room. If he was too busy getting ready to apologize, he could do it after the show. I finished changing, and after a few minutes, the makeup artist came in to help me.

* * *

_**Erik**_

I stared at myself in the mirror, looking over my prosthetics one last time. They weren't perfect – my real face had been far more hideous than any makeup could feign – but they'd have to do. I grinned – and was immediately disgusted enough to put on the mask. I held it for a moment – no ugly, plastic mask would dare grace my face tonight. No. Instead, I'd once again don my own.

Once I was certain of my appearance, I headed out toward the stage. Heading up to see Toby – the show still hadn't started – he turned in shock when he heard my footsteps. "Erik…you scared the hell outta me."

I grinned. "Good. I'm still frightening." I looked out at the audience, knowing they couldn't see me. "Who's out there tonight, anyway? Anyone famous?"

"Well," Toby said, "among other notables – I'm pretty sure Webber's out there."

I shuddered. Not in anticipation, not even in fright – it was a sickening thought, the man who had so badly mangled my story should come to see me act in it. "Anyone who's _not_ liable to make me gag?"

"Let's see…" He scanned the audience with me. "Ooh, look – Sarah Brightman."

I waved dismissively. "She doesn't have half the tone my girls did."

He frowned, and continued to point out famous people – including Michael Crawford. It was all I could do not to send escorts down to his seat and remove him from the audience. I knew Kit idolized the original cast of this play – for the night, I'd indulge her, if only because I still had my tail between my legs at what I'd done to her.

When the play began, I stayed in the flies – it was the best place for my voice to carry across the auditorium, even with the microphone and speakers. Knowing my first line came just before "Angel of Music," which would then give me time to run down and get into my place again, I started to calm – just seeing Kit was liable to make me wish to stop the play and kiss her.

I nearly smiled halfway through the title song. Without meaning to, Kit and I were nearly repeating the night I'd first taken her down through the cellars – of course, this time we had an audience, and we didn't have eight levels to descend. But she looked just as hypnotized as she had that night – though I knew she was still angry with me.

Without even trying, it came time for Buquet's death – and I didn't want the show to progress from there. I knew which song it was, what scene – I knew what Kit and Sean had to do, while I stood there and watched. But I also knew the best stunt in the entire play was coming – my chandelier ride and jump to the proscenium. We'd practiced it for weeks, to make sure the timing was right and that there wasn't even a _chance_ of anything going wrong, considering we were using my theatre's own chandelier for the stunt.

As soon as the hated song finished, and the orchestra started playing the overly-dramatic music, I ran from the stage and climbed into the flies, stepping carefully out onto the proscenium – Toby had buckled the cables that would hoist me back up to my belt – and I took a flying leap and hit the chandelier, clinging on for dear life. Even though I knew falling wouldn't kill me, and I was buckled to cables held by several stagehands, if I fell I could injure or kill the person I hit.

Laughing maniacally over the music – even Freya looked up momentarily from the orchestra pit – I started rocking back and forth, swinging the chandelier. Originally I'd wondered why Webber had even put this bit in – but now I realized, it was loads of fun. I should have thought of this back in Paris – maybe Christine and Antoinette would have learned not to cross me… I shook my head. I couldn't think about them if I wanted Kit back.

As soon as I cleared my head enough to continue the maniacal laughter that was called for in the scene, I heard the chandelier start to detach from the ceiling. I knew it was supposed to go slowly – a three-second pause between each cable detaching its hold – but suddenly, there was only a one-second delay. As I realized this, my earpiece – my link to Toby for this stunt – crackled. "Uh, Erik?" He sounded panicked. "Something's going wrong, I'm telling them to hoist you back up now." Knowing I couldn't answer, I heard him tell the stagehands to hoist me up as the chandelier started to fall toward the stage – out of control. I felt the lines go taut – and realized they couldn't hoist me back up. The cables were stuck.

I was stuck falling with the chandelier to the stage. Before I was halfway down, I detached the cables from my belt – at least I wouldn't drag the poor stagehands off their perch. And as I stared at the stage, the spot where I guessed the chandelier would stop, I realized Kit was standing in the way – and frozen, her mouth hanging open. Without thinking, when I was close enough, I jumped from the chandelier and hit the stage on my feet. I ran toward her and grabbed her around the waist, and just as the chandelier crashed into the stage, I dragged her out of its way – catching my arm on the crystal and tearing my sleeve.

Sitting in the wings, staring at Kit, I realized she was still shaking. "Kit, are you all right?" I could hear the audience getting up and stretching for intermission – they'd thought it the real way, and that was fine with me. As long as no one was hurt, they could think that all night. "Are you all right?" I stared at her – her mouth opened and closed for a few seconds with no sound.

"Erik…" she whispered. "I…" Without another sound, she leapt at me and threw her arms around me. "Oh, God, I could have been killed. You saved me."

I kissed her forehead – she sighed contentedly. "Course I did. Why wouldn't I?" I tipped her head up so she looked at me. "Does this mean you're…?"

"As long as you love me more than you did them, I'm not mad."

I smiled. "Your ring's in my dressing room. I wanted to apologize…" I closed my mouth for a moment, then started again. "What I meant was, _je suis désolé, Chaton_."

She smiled. "It's all right, darling. I'd, um…I'd kiss you, but our makeup will smear and that would be bad."

"Just hug me tight." She did, and I gave her a little squeeze. Then I sent her off to her dressing room to sit for a few minutes – and I climbed into the flies. "Boucher! What the _fuck_ happened? Kit could have been _killed_!"

"Yeah, uh, _not my fault_!" he hissed at me. "Someone changed the timing on the chandelier detaching, and someone put _these_ on your cables." He held out a small piece of rubber tubing – a makeshift stopper. Someone had wanted me still on that chandelier when it hit the stage.

"Who could have…?"

He shook his head. "The only person they consistently saw was Darius – but he was acting, wasn't he?"

I took a deep, shaky breath. Darius. Of course – Lily _Firmin_ Nehil, why hadn't I caught that earlier? He was probably acting on her behalf.

I knew Nichole was going to come back and haunt me. "Ah, well," I sighed, staring at Toby. "At least I got Kit back."


	43. NYC: All Work And No Play

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – May 16, 2009**_

_**Erik**_

"You awake?"

I opened my eyes slowly. "I am now. What is it, Kitten?"

"You horny?"

I rolled my eyes. "_Mon Dieu_, I'm still worn out from last night. Aren't you ever tired?"

"Not of you." She rolled over, trying to climb on top of me, and her knee caught me between the legs. I let out a scream that startled even me, and she sat up quickly, careful not to catch me again. "Oh, God, darling, I'm sorry!"

"It's fine," I said, my voice higher-pitched than usual. When I'd recovered – several minutes later – we got up and dressed. She kissed me and left – rehearsal for one final production of _Phantom_ later on that night was calling. I sighed as I heard the door close behind her from downstairs, looking at the ceiling. "A little more subtle of a sign wouldn't have killed you, you know." Buckling my belt, I walked downstairs and into my kitchen. I may not have needed food, but the taste never hurt.

I opened the refrigerator, only to find one small container of yogurt and half a slice of pizza. "You have got to be _kidding_ me." I slammed the door shut, leaning against it for a moment. I stared at the ceiling again. "How can you be this cruel to me? First immortal life – now I've got the taste for food in my mouth so badly I'm _drooling_ and I have _nothing_?" I punched the refrigerator door – and recoiled in pain. "Oh, _that_ was smart." I opened the cabinets and rummaged through them, hoping to find something worth eating, but there was nothing – more cans of coffee than a man could naturally consume in a lifetime – even an immortal one – but no real food.

Sighing, I went to the phone and dialed. It rang a few times, then someone picked up. "Yes, Mr. Muhlheim?"

"Sophia, I need you to run an errand for me."

"Of course, sir."

"The bakery down the street – go run and fetch me something from it."

There was a pause. "Uh…what would you…?"

"Anything. Just get me something I can't _possibly_ finish in two bites. Then I need you to go shopping for me – I need some food up here."

"But…but sir…"

"Don't argue – that's not what I pay you for. I pay you to run these errands, don't I?"

"Well, yes…"

"Then don't argue." Her sputtering stopped. "All right, now – the bakery, please, and sometime this hour would be nice. I can't rehearse or direct rehearsals without something in my stomach today."

There was silence on the other end. "Yes, sir. Right away." She hung up, and I did as well, sighing. With her tone, the earliest I could expect her here with food would be around noon – three hours, and that was if she didn't get sidetracked. Too easily amused, that one.

I sat down on the loveseat and started folding my laundry. Boredom – and a great dislike for disorder – had its advantages. I quickly finished with my shirts and trousers and was halfway through the towels when I heard my penthouse door open. Expecting Sophia – though I knew better – I looked. It was Kit. "Ah, my lovely little Kitten. What do you need?"

She cocked her head to the side, staring at me strangely. "You're in a bright and cheery mood."

"And why shouldn't I be?"

She paused, walking toward me. "I don't know. It's just a bit strange, is all." Leaning on the back of the loveseat, she made to kiss me, but glanced down at my hands and stopped. "Erik, what are you doing?"

"Folding laundry."

Stepping around to the front of the loveseat, she took the current towel from my hands and held it up. "Funny, darling – you're utterly priceless. Does _this_ look like folding to you?" I stared for a moment, confused, but then realized what she meant. Looking down at the others I'd already done, I slapped myself.

Instead of folding the towels, I had absentmindedly tied them all into nooses.

Before I could move, she had pushed me down on the loveseat and was sitting on top of my hips. "Kit…no."

"Then unfold them." She leaned down and dragged her tongue up my throat – I let out an involuntary moan. "Come on – reach up and unfold them."

"They're underneath me," I whined.

She looked up, into my eyes, then planted her lips on mine. Her hands moved to my waist and started unbuckling my belt. I tried to protest, but couldn't talk around her lips. "You promised me, Erik – no more nooses."

"When did I ever promise that?" She nipped gently at my earlobe, and started grinding into my hips. "Ohh… All right, all right! I'll stop tying the towels into nooses! God, Kit – just stop trying to screw me!"

She stopped immediately, standing up and smiling at me, still sprawled on my back on the loveseat. "See? Was that so hard?"

"No, but now I am."

She smiled, heading for the door. "See you at rehearsals, darling." Still on my back, I heard the door open and shut. Slowly, I sat up, taking each towel and untying it, then folding it properly.

* * *

Three hours passed, and when Sophia had still not shown up with food for me, I began to get impatient. I called down to the desk – but no one answered. Sighing, I made my way to the elevator. I wasn't going to yell – that much I knew – but I did need to give her a stern lecture. I didn't pay her to slack off and laze around – I paid her to be my personal assistant. That included running errands when she was asked.

When the doors opened on the lobby, I prepared myself. But stepping out into it, I realized there was no answer at the desk because there was no one at the desk. I walked over, gritting my teeth, and found a note.

_Mr. Muhlheim, you're needed on the stage. –Sophia._

I sighed – she couldn't have just called up? Or answered the damn phone? Shaking my head, I walked out onto the stage area, expecting trouble. It was dark – the lights weren't on, and I couldn't see anyone or anything. "Uh, Sophia? Someone? Lights would help!"

All at once, the lights came on – the entire cast and crew were standing around a lit cake. "_Surprise!_" they chorused, then laughed as I must have reacted.

Kit walked over and kissed me. "You didn't think we forgot your birthday, did we?"

"For a few moments, yes, I did," I admitted.

"Oh, come on!" I looked up – Toby was peeking out of the flies above me. "We're not about to forget the Phantom's hundred-and-seventy-first, Erik. Too awesome."

I smiled as they cut the cake and served it. My birthday – the day I'd come to loathe – and they were celebrating it as if I were special. Not an outcast, not different – special. Kit handed me a piece, then looked at me strangely. "Oh, darling," she whispered, "don't cry."

"But this is so amazing," I said softly.

"I know. My idea – you always celebrate mine and I never knew when yours was until Meg told me last week."

I grinned – so _that_ was how they'd figured it out. I made it a policy not to tell anyone about my birthday – I'd always feared they'd try to celebrate it and I didn't want that. After more than a hundred years, I really didn't see why anyone should have to try to make me feel special for another year of life I didn't want in the first place.

As soon as I had my first mouthful of cake, Sophia came running toward me. "Sir, happy birthday – but to be honest, you and Miss Chagny still need to select a caterer, florist – you need to choose colors and Miss Chagny _desperately_ needs to get in for a fitting – you only have a month, sir."

I sighed. "You know, Sophia, all work and no play makes Erik a very cranky boy."

"All due respect, Mr. Muhlheim, all play and no work will make you an _unmarried_ boy." She grinned, handing me a clipboard, and walked away.

As I gazed it over, I heard Kit snicker from beside me. I stared at her. "She's right, you know, darling – as much as you don't want to admit it." With a kiss, she went off to talk with Meg, leaving me clutching the clipboard and my cake.


	44. NYC: Preludes

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – June 13, 2009**_

_**Kit – 10:30 AM**_

I grabbed my purse and dumped it out on my bed. "Oh, God, Meg! I lost Erik's ring!" Pawing through the clutter on my bed, I scanned for the thin gold band, but didn't see it. "Meg! _Meg!_ Erik's going to _kill_ me…I lost his wedding band…" Meg's hand appeared in front of my face, Erik's wedding band around her thumb. "Oh…" I giggled sheepishly. "There it is." I stared at her smiling face for a moment. "Can I pull my hair out now?"

"Better do it now, before the hairdresser gets here."

I stared at the mess on my bed. "Shit…what the hell did I do that for? Now I have to arrange it all again."

I felt my cousin Qusie's hand on my shoulder. "The hairdresser will be here in ten minutes. Go sit, you nut – I'll fix it." I hugged her and walked out into the sitting room. Sean was in a corner, rehearsing the "Ave Maria" – he'd be singing it just before the processional and running back to walk me down the aisle. It had been the best I could do for him after Erik outright refused to make him a groomsman. I sank down into an armchair and watched my bridesmaids argue over who looked better in their dress – unfortunately, to my eyes, Perrie outclassed them all. Before I could stop their argument, the hairdresser was coming in the room and asking for me.

I sighed, striding across the room to have my hair done. "He couldn't have eloped with me?"

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – June 13, 2009**_

_**Erik – 10:30 AM**_

"Toby!" I finished tying my shoes and stood up, checking myself in the mirror. "Toby, damn it!"

He peeked into the room. "You need something?"

"Did I give you Kit's ring?"

He shook his head. "Uh…no. No, I don't think you did."

I turned to face him – I could feel my heart racing. "What? I…I could have sworn I gave it to you an hour ago…"

"Maybe you meant to, but I don't have it."

I raced to my bedside table and pulled the drawer open. Grabbing the box that should have held her wedding ring, I opened it – it was empty. "No…this…this can't be happening…" I sank onto the edge of my bed, staring at the empty box. "I _did not_ lose her wedding ring…"

Toby sat down next to me. "Calm down – you have an hour to find it."

I glared at him. "I have an hour to find something that shouldn't be lost in the first place."

Before I could get to my feet, Sophia had walked into the room. "Uh, Mr. Muhlheim? Did you _mean_ to leave this on the kitchen counter?" She held out a small gold ring.

"Sophia, I could _kiss_ you!" I cried, jumping up and grabbing the ring from her.

"Well, don't. I don't think your bride would like that very much."

I handed the ring to Toby. "Don't you _dare_ lose this." He nodded as I heard a call from the outer room. I walked out of my bedroom. Darius was calling for me. "What?"

"Mr. Crawford _insists_ on being seated in the fourth row, along with the other…" He looked at his feet. "The other important _Phantom_ people, as he put it. And I'm not entirely sure he's wrong, sir."

I sighed – Kit would kill me if Crawford was seated where I'd intended – the sixteenth row. Instead, now it seemed he was destined for the fourth row if I wished to keep vital parts of my anatomy intact. "Fine, Darius, that's fine. Just shuffle some people around, make it work." He left, and I sank onto the loveseat.

Toby sat next to me. "Something wrong?"

I patted his shoulder. "Ah,_ mon ami_, a very loaded question. Think of what I gain today – and lose tonight – and then ask me that again."

He nodded. "True." There was silence for a moment – then he chuckled.

"What?" I stared at him as he started into a full rolling laugh. "Toby, don't test me today. What are you laughing about?"

As soon as he caught his breath, he looked at me. "Sorry – I'm not supposed to tell you. You're not supposed to find out till the reception."

I nodded slowly. "I'll remember this, Tobias."

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – June 13, 2009**_

_**Kit – 11:30 AM**_

"What do you _mean_, Erik sat the remaining two Beatles in the _seventeenth row_?!" I'd never heard Meg snarl, but she was damn close to it now – staring at Sophia, eyes wide.

"I…he…it wasn't him!" Sophia gaped for a moment, then continued. "Mr. Nehil was told to shuffle some people around to make room for some people in the fourth row, and…well…Mr. McCartney and Mr. Starr got moved."

I felt my eyes go wide. "So, let me get this straight. The last two members of one of my favorite bands are seated in virtually the last row we're using." She nodded. "Where, pray tell, is _his_ invited band sitting?"

"Oh, the boys from Fall Out Boy? They're in the…" She clamped her lips shut and shook her head. "No. Nuh-uh. You're not pinnin' this on me."

"_Where the fuck are they sitting?!_" Everyone turned to stare at Meg.

"The…the second row," Sophia muttered, her voice high-pitched.

With a cry worthy of an enraged bull, Meg started from the room. "I don't care if he's standing in front of everyone already – I'm going to kick his _ass_!"

I ran and stopped her just inside the door. "Meg…Meg, stop. I don't care _how_ mad you are, I'm fairly sure it'd be considered…well, _rude_…to sucker-punch the bridegroom." As Meg breathed deeply, calming down, Sophia pulled me aside.

"I have to go downstairs now – Mr. Muhlheim's already gone down."

I felt the color draining from my face. "It's…it's nearly time?" With her nod, I turned away – she left, and I looked at my bridesmaids. My maid of honor was still purple, trying to breathe. "Well…it's about that time, isn't it?"

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – June 13, 2009**_

_**Erik – 11:30 AM**_

Standing on the stage, facing an audience, was normally just humiliating enough. But to stand there, with the preludes playing – including Webber's own Overture for _Phantom_ – was beyond humiliation. I tried desperately not to go red, but it couldn't be helped – with every single eye on me, I couldn't help but flush.

"Man," Toby whispered, nudging me. "Stop it. You look like a strawberry."

"You have any remedies, I'll be glad to hear them." Luckily, I didn't have long to stand there and be the sole center of attention before the processional – Eliot and Sean, both in the wedding party, had solos as well. I could hear people start to sniffle as Eliot belted out "Strawberry Fields Forever," and I felt my color returning to normal – somehow, knowing Kit was already in the theatre lobby, waiting to enter, made my heart rate return to normal. As Eliot finished, he ran back up the center aisle, and Sean took his place at the microphone, now singing the "Ave Maria."

Toby nudged me again, near the end of the song. "Whose idea was _this_?"

I sighed softly, leaning toward him. "Kit's, I'm afraid. You know how I loathe church music." As I spoke, he finished to applause, and bolted down the center aisle. "Two minutes," I whispered, only loud enough to carry to my own ears. "Two more minutes." As short a time as it seemed, it dragged on – and just as I thought I'd fallen asleep, and was dreaming the torture of waiting, Freya stood up next to Kerstin on the stage, violin in hand. I took a deep breath.


	45. NYC: Entr'acte

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – June 13, 2009**_

_**Kit – 12:00 PM**_

As soon as I heard Freya and Kerstin start playing, I knew it was time. We'd practiced it so that half of the processional song would be prelude, and the other half would be the bridal party processional. I stood in the lobby, on Sean's arm, and listened to the music, watching my bridesmaids disappear down the aisle, each on the arms of a corresponding groomsman. Then Meg, my maid of honor, disappeared into the theatre after them.

I turned to Sean. "I'm so nervous. I feel sick."

"You'll be fine," he said. "You'll be jittery till you're holding on to his arm, and then you'll be fine."

After maybe two minutes of silence, I heard Kerstin and the orchestra start to play my song – or, more accurately, "Erik's Theme." I grinned – since they hadn't played it last night at rehearsal, Erik was certain to be surprised by it – he thought I was using the normal bridal march.

As I stepped into the auditorium with Sean, walking slowly down the center aisle – with every eye in the place on me – I spotted Erik on the stage, next to Toby. His mouth was hanging slightly open, and when he caught sight of me, it only opened wider. I saw Toby look at him, then at me – then do a double-take, and he forcibly closed Erik's mouth. Sean and I finally reached the orchestra pit – it had been covered, and a makeshift ramp put up so I wouldn't have to climb stairs in my wedding gown. I hugged Sean at the bottom of the ramp, then proceeded up it to Erik's waiting arm.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – June 13, 2009**_

_**Erik – 12:00 PM**_

As thrilled as I was to have had her walk down the aisle to that song, I knew I had to focus on the task at hand. If I missed something, it would quickly turn into a disaster. But having her on my arm, listening to the priest, was almost too intoxicating – looking the way she did – I wanted to take her upstairs now, ceremony be damned.

Ten minutes into the ceremony, we were each handed a long match and led over to a small table, on which were two large candles. One bore the legend "Owen, Rita, Gregory Chagny – 1994" – the other read "Celeste Muhlheim – 1870 & Antoinette Giry – 1900." I had deliberately not included my parents or brothers – they hadn't been kind to me, so there was no reason to include them, in my mind. Antoinette had been more of a mother to me than my own ever had – and Celeste…well, insane though she was, she'd defended me when she had her moments of clarity.

As Freya and the orchestra started with "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again," I watched as Kit lit her candle, whispering a prayer while the priest spoke aloud to the assembled guests. A tear traced its way down her cheek – and I remembered. I remembered that today made exactly fifteen years since Meg had brought her to the school in London. Exactly fifteen years since her family died. It was all I could do not to sweep her into my arms and kiss her.

When she stood back from the table and had blown out her match, I stepped forward. Not having prepared something to say had been truly stupid, but I couldn't prepare for this part – I'd tried for a month. Lighting the match, I lit the candle. "I miss you two." I felt a tear start in my own eye, but I refused to let it fall. I blew out my match and took Kit's arm, returning to our previous spot in front of the priest. There were several more readings, more lectures on love, and then – finally – he asked us to take the rings. I turned to Toby and stretched out my hand.

He groped in his breast pocket, and for a moment, I thought he'd forgotten it upstairs. But he produced it, handing it to me with a small smile. Turning back to Kit, I saw she had my ring in her small hand. The priest announced that we had written our own vows – slightly true, slightly not – and that we would now recite them. He turned to me – I turned to Kit and saw her bat her eyes at me. I managed a breath and started.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – June 13, 2009**_

_**Kit – 12:30 PM**_

I watched him gulp – it was almost funny, and had it not been such a serious matter I would have broken down in laughter. Freya and the orchestra started on "Angel of Music" – one of the few songs we'd chosen without a three-hour argument – and he opened his mouth. At first, nothing came out. He shook his head and tried again, but still nothing. My hand in his, I managed a tiny squeeze – a silent plea for him to relax – and the third time he tried, the words sounded.

"In one-hundred-seventy-one years, I have had the privilege to know many people. Many were unkind, and few thought I deserved a chance at happiness. And then, nine years ago, I met you. You were sweet, kind – and gave me the chance at happiness I had been denied for so long. I have never been as happy in my life as I am with you." He slid the ring onto my finger slowly. "I give you this ring as my promise, Christine – I will always be happy with you, no matter where we are, no matter how far apart we may be – I am a part of you, and you, a part of me." I heard sniffling from the auditorium – it was all I could do not to join them. After a moment of silence – as he was pulling his hand back from mine – he mouthed, "I love you, Kit."

I smiled, trying not to let the tears in my eyes fall. Taking his ring and readying it, I stared into his eyes. "Since the day I was born, we were destined for each other. As unlikely a pairing as we may seem – you, nearly a hundred and fifty years my senior – I…" I gulped – words were failing me. I'd had my vows memorized last night – why couldn't I remember them now? "I…" He squeezed my hand gently, but I knew I was shaking – I couldn't relax. After a moment, when the words didn't come, I knew I had to wing it. "Words can't express what you mean to me – and it's meaningless to try to put so complicated a feeling into words. I know, quite simply, that I love you. I will love you more every day that I am with you – I will love you even when I am not." I slid the ring onto his finger. "This ring is my promise, Erik – you are loved, wherever we may be. I promise to make you happy, and I promise to love you, and you alone." I pulled my hand back slowly, and joined my right hand to his left. I saw tears in his eyes, threatening to fall, but I knew he'd never let them.

A few moments later, the priest's words invaded my thoughts – pronouncing us husband and wife. I watched Erik's face break into a smile, and he leaned down toward me. We kissed – and I heard the entire crowd cheer, but the true volume was lost on me. As we parted, the orchestra cued up with the "Entr'acte" from _Phantom_, and I took Erik's right arm, walking back up the center aisle with him and into the theatre lobby. As soon as we were clear of the doors, he grinned at me. "Come, my dear," he whispered, and we made a mad dash for his office. When we were joined by the priest, Toby, and Meg, we all signed the marriage license – the one thing I thought would be damn near impossible to get, as Erik _technically_ should be long dead, and his birth certificate had probably either been long lost in Rouen or had never existed – but it had actually been the easiest thing to acquire. They couldn't argue with the Phantom when they'd been presented with him in the living, breathing flesh. Once I'd scrawled my name across the certificate, I turned to Erik – before I could speak, he was kissing me again. Toby and Meg sighed, then left the room. I looked at the certificate one last time before the priest removed it from the room.

Christine Muhlheim – me.


	46. NYC: Mr and Mrs Muhlheim

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – June 13, 2009**_

_**Erik – 1:30 PM**_

It had taken every ounce of willpower I had not to lock my office door and take Kit right after the ceremony. I knew what it entailed if I did – and I decided to wait until we could be alone on the thirty-seventh floor. So we waited an hour, sitting in my office and just kissing and talking. As soon as it was time for the reception, I offered her my arm, and we walked out to the overlarge ballroom near my office. I'd built it specially for occasions such as this.

The DJ announced us – with a start, I realized she'd done what I hadn't wanted her to and taken my name – but I let it go. No use fretting over it. As we walked inside, I saw Toby giggle – and then I realized why. We had such a massive crowd of people to cross to the dance floor, he'd apparently changed the songs so that our first few dances wouldn't be taken up by walking.

But he hadn't needed to play "_La Marseillaise._" I felt myself going red – against my will – and as soon as I was near Toby, he pulled me apart from Kit for a moment. "Like the song?"

"_Tu le fils d'une chienne_," I whispered in his ear, pulling him close so no one would overhear me. "There is something truly wrong with you, you know that?" He kept giggling, and I realized the song had changed – nicely segued into "God Save The Queen." I turned and faced Kit – now we _both_ were blushing. With a gulp, she took my right arm again, and we kept on toward the dance floor.

She leaned into me, keeping her voice low. "I feel like a princess."

I grinned at her, a cruel thought crossing my mind – why should Toby have all the fun today? "I did my job, then." It was worth it when she smiled. We took our place on the dance floor, and I spotted Crawford up on the stage, at the microphone. "Kit…I don't think we agreed on this…"

"Too bad, dance with me anyway." She grinned. As "Music of the Night" started, I whirled her around the dance floor – trying unsuccessfully to ignore the fact that Crawford was butchering the song he'd made famous. It was all I could do not to belt out the right version – but I didn't feel like having Kit tape my mouth shut.

I couldn't make her unhappy today – so I kept my mouth shut on my own.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – June 13, 2009**_

_**Kit – 6:00 PM**_

I couldn't take my eyes off of him – even trying to do something other than waltz, and failing miserably, he was quite handsome. I doubted he approved of my choice of song when I tossed the bouquet – something fast and heavy-metal-sounding – but I wasn't so sure I liked his choice of classical music to toss my garter to, so it evened out in the end.

Just before we were supposed to leave the party, Fall Out Boy took the stage – for the fourth or fifth time, I'd lost count with everyone that had sung for us – and asked Erik to come up onstage with them. I let him – I was curious. When he'd joined them, they started playing "Dance, Dance" – I laughed as he started singing with them. Before I could laugh too hard, Margery pulled me aside.

"Looks good, doesn't he?" she said. I nodded, still laughing. "I…uh…I hope you don't hate me, but I just asked Perrie to be my partner for life." I stared at her. "We're not going to tell anyone else for awhile – I just wanted to tell you…"

I grinned, hugging her. "Oh, Margie! That's wonderful!" We laughed as Erik finished singing, then applauded with the rest of the crowd.

As soon as he came down off the stage, he made his way over to me – at least, he was trying to when I saw Michael Crawford corner him. I laughed and looked at Margery. "Oh, boy – this ought to be interesting."

"Doesn't he _loathe_ Michael?"

I nodded, laughing. But as I watched, Erik shook hands with him – grinning. As surprised as I was, I almost wasn't – obviously nothing could ruin his jovial mood today. As soon as he rejoined me, I stroked his cheek. "Have a nice talk with Michael, did you, darling?"

"Actually, he's not as bad as I thought he'd be." He offered me his right arm. "Shall we?"

I laughed. "To the thirty-seventh floor!"

He chuckled as we started out of the room. "You're drunk."

"Nope – no such luck, Mr. Muhlheim." We hadn't even taken ten steps when I heard the orchestra start playing _Phantom_'s title song. Before either of us could protest, Meg had started on the first verse – she was quickly joined by all the women in the room. The men took Erik's part – I saw him grimace as we passed a particularly off-key guest.

At the door, we turned and faced each other – the crowd silenced as we sang the final verse together. As I hit the final note, Erik turned to the guests. "Thank you all! Good night!" He swept me into his arms with a squeal and ran to the lift.

"I'm not the one who's drunk," I said as he set me down inside it, the doors shutting and cutting off the sound of the party. "But you might be a good candidate."

"Maybe a little," he said, cocking his head to the side as he jammed his finger against the button for his penthouse. As soon as we reached it, he threw open the penthouse door and carried me inside, kicking the door shut. Without even putting me down, he continued up the stairs to his – our – bedroom. "I'm not going to let you forget tonight, Mrs. Muhlheim," he whispered.


	47. NYC: Changing Forever

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – June 13, 2009**_

_**Meg – 7:00 PM**_

Though the scripted live acts stopped after the departure of the new Mr. and Mrs. Muhlheim, the karaoke singing was in full swing. I had to laugh when the groomsmen started belting out "Bohemian Rhapsody" – most of them were at least slightly drunk and seemed not to be able to remember the words. As I took another sip of my champagne, I felt Margery at my elbow. "What, dear?"

"Aren't you even slightly worried?"

"About what?" I looked at her wryly for a moment. She sighed and walked away, pulling Perrie onto the dance floor. I frowned – as much as I disapproved of the two of them, I had to admit, they were good together.

I felt a tug at my elbow. Turning, I saw Toby. "Meg, you promised me another dance." He offered his hand – laughing, I took it.

"Toby, you are a cad, for certain." He grinned and whirled me about on the dance floor. As good a dancer as he was, I had to admit he would have been no match for my Étienne. The song was mercifully short – my feet were amazingly sore in my shoes. When the song ended, Toby led me back to the table, and we sat and drank our champagne, watching the others dance.

As I sipped the champagne, I felt my stomach churn. At first, I thought I had simply had too much to drink – but after a moment, my vision blurred and I felt lightheaded, too much to have it simply be the alcohol. Had I not been sitting, I might have fallen to my knees. Leaning over toward Toby, I tried to speak, but could not. As I reached out to him with my free hand, the champagne flute fell from my other hand, shattering on the floor.

Immediately, the music stopped, and I could feel every eye in the room on me. "Jesus, Meg," Toby said, taking hold of my arm. "Are you all right?"

"N…no," I said, breathing heavily. "I don't…what's going on?" I looked down at the floor and saw the shattered glass. "Oh, dear…I should…" Even with Toby trying to stop me, I reached down and tried to pick up a piece of the broken glass – and stupidly caught my hand on a sharp edge. I pulled my hand back quickly and looked.

I had a small cut on my palm, oozing blood.

Toby took my hand and looked. "Oh, jeez, you're bleeding." After a second, the words seemed to hit him. "Oh my God, you're _bleeding_!"

I felt Margery and Perrie at my side now. "Mom, you're…but I thought…"

I sighed and looked up at the ceiling as Toby wrapped my hand in a napkin. "Oh, Erik. What have you done?"

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – June 13, 2009**_

_**Erik – 7:30 PM**_

I sat up, inhaling sharply. Kit's hand was on my shoulder – she was speaking – I couldn't hear her. It felt as though my heart were being cut from my chest with a blunt instrument. I fell back on the bed, trying to breathe, not having much luck. After a few minutes, the initial pain subsided – it was replaced with a feeling of white-hot fire encircling my body, all four limbs and my head. I could see Kit's face through my blurred vision – she was crying.

After a few minutes, this pain dispersed as well, and my vision and hearing returned to normal. I looked at Kit, touching her face. "Don't…don't cry," I gasped. "I'm all right."

"If I'd known it would hurt you that much…" she whispered. "Are you sure you're all right?"

I nodded. "Hand me the book on the table, will you?" She nodded and reached over to my bedside table, handing me the book I'd asked for.

"What are you going to…?" Before she could finish, I had taken one of the pages and sliced my finger on it. She grabbed the book away as I popped my injured finger into my mouth. "Are you out of your mind?"

I took my finger out of my mouth and looked at it. A few drops of blood were oozing from the wound. I showed her. "No…just free."


	48. NYC: Make It Disappear

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – September, 2009**_

"Erik!" I knelt on the floor in the bathroom, trying not to cry. "Erik!"

After a few minutes, I heard his footsteps in the bedroom. "Kit? Kitten? Where are you?"

"Bathroom," I said, the tears welling in my eyes finally falling. I looked toward the door and saw him standing in the doorway, staring at me like he didn't know exactly what to do. "Don't just stand there, for God's sake – help me."

He swallowed visibly. "I know you're ill, Kitten, but it's no reason you have to take it out on me. I haven't done anything."

"That's exactly the problem!" He took a deep breath, and I was immediately ashamed. "Oh, darling, I'm sorry. I…I don't know what's wrong with me." As soon as I was able to leave the bathroom, he helped me to the bed and tucked me in.

"Now, you stay here – I'll bring you something around noon, all right?" Then he left, and I heard the door shut downstairs as he returned to rehearsals – _Rent_. He'd cast me as Mimi – with him playing not Roger, but Collins. I'd laughed when he'd cast Toby as Angel, teasing him that I'd always known he'd had a thing for Toby. I'd also panicked when he'd cast Sean as Roger, but he'd told me he wasn't worried about me kissing Sean – I was his wife now, and he knew I wouldn't run off with Sean.

I felt sick again about an hour after he'd gone, but luckily it didn't result in much. As I lay propped up against my pillows, reading, a sudden thought occurred to me. "I…oh, God, it _can't_ be that." I picked up the phone and called downstairs.

"Yes, Mrs. Muhlheim?"

"Sophia, stop calling me that."

"Of course, Mrs. Muhlheim. What is it you need?"

I sighed. "I need you…this is going to sound a little strange, but I need you to run out and pick up…" I lowered my voice, not quite sure why. "I need you to pick up one of those things you got last week."

"Oh." There was silence for a moment. "_Oh!_ Oh, dear, you _can't_ be…you're so young…"

"And you're perhaps too old?" She quieted. "Please, Sophia, I need you _not_ to tell Erik about this."

"My lips are sealed," she said, and after a few more minutes of deciding exactly how she was to get the required item, we hung up. I sat back, trying to read, but now not having any luck.

I couldn't be pregnant. He'd never believe me if I was. I nearly cried when I realized I could be – the restriction on his not being able to have children had been lifted when we broke the curse. He had no need for children when he was immortal – he needed no legacy when he _was_ his own legacy.

About noon, I heard the door downstairs open, and someone came up the stairs. I held my breath, for the first time hoping it wasn't Erik – I didn't feel like having to tell him why I thought I was getting sick every morning. Luckily, it was Sophia – she was holding two small paper bags. "All right," she said quietly. "Now one of these is what you asked me for…I got two, just in case the first one fails. This other one is from Mr. Muhlheim – he said he promised you lunch, but he can't take a break from rehearsals." She smiled. "Apparently it's going badly down there."

"Lucky for me," I muttered, taking both bags from her. After she'd gone, I decided it was time to check – after all, if I had to make an appointment with my doctor, why not now? Checking the instructions, I waited the full five minutes, just to be sure. Holding my breath, I checked – it was positive. I wanted to cry – I wanted to call down and have Sophia send Erik up to hold me – I just didn't want to tell him yet. Instead, I called my doctor's office and made an appointment – they were able to fit me in later that day.

When I was leaving the building to go to my appointment, Sophia stopped me. "D'you want someone to go with you?" I shook my head mutely – I didn't want to tell anyone else. But she took my arm. "Look, he can get along without me for a few hours – that's why he's got Toby doing this job, too." She grabbed her purse and walked me outside, hailing a cab.

As we walked into the office, I looked at her. "Thanks, Sophia. You didn't have to come with me."

She waved her hand dismissively. "It wasn't nothing. You don't really think he'd want you to be going out all by your lonesome, now, do you?" I smiled at the floor – she was right, of course. He wouldn't want me here by myself – he didn't even like me leaving the _penthouse_ without an escort lately.

After about ten minutes, they called me into a room, and a nurse came in and did some tests. After another ten minutes of simply waiting, the doctor came in. She did a couple more tests, then snapped off her gloves and looked at me. "Well, I have great news for you, Mrs. Muhlheim. You're pregnant."

As I returned to Sophia, and we left the office, I really did want to cry – whether out of joy or not still remained to be decided. Pregnant. Wonderful. Not only did I already know how Erik would react – he'd hate it – but now it was certain. My career was virtually over – at least on hold for awhile, while I had this baby and raised it.

* * *

I was watching television when Erik came home. "Kit!" he said, shutting the door. I didn't even turn. "Kit, honey, I brought dinner." I heard him set something down on the kitchen table, then his footsteps coming toward me. "Uh…Kitten? Is something wrong?" I shook my head, turning off the television. I could feel myself shaking. He sat down beside me and pulled me into his arms. "Are you sure? You're shaking pretty hard. What happened?" He kissed my forehead.

I looked up at his face – I couldn't tell him – but I knew I had to. "Erik? Darling?"

"Yeah?"

Staring into his eyes, I suddenly realized my problem. I was anticipating his reaction and molding my own around it. I should have been happy – I was carrying his child. I smiled for the first time all day. "I'm not exactly sure how to say this, so I'm just going to say it." I took a small breath. "Erik, I'm pregnant."

I had anticipated him being agitated, jumping up and screaming at the top of his lungs. Instead, he calmly released me and rose from the couch, pacing for a few moments. Then he turned to me. "I can't let you have it," he said quietly. "We have to kill it."

I was stunned. "Wh…what? Your…our…it's a _child_, Erik, not a weed!"

"I don't care," he said, as calmly as if he were explaining the difference between C-natural and B-sharp. "If it's our child, then that means it's half mine – and you know what that may mean."

"Listen to yourself! It _may_ mean…it's not for certain!"

"Kit," he said, still calmly. "I forbid you from having that child."

I stood up, unable to understand how I found the strength. "You…you can't tell me that. It's inside _me_, Erik, not you. You can't decide what I do with it."

He shook his head. "No, you're right. If you decide to let it come to term, I can't stop you." He stared at me for a moment. "But I _do_ have a right to decide what happens to it _after_ it's born."

"They won't let you kill it. You may have gotten away with the others, but they won't ignore you murdering your own child."

He shook his head again. "Not what I intended. After it's born – while you're drugged up nicely and passed out, I _can_ make it disappear in other ways." He started to smile. "Adoption. They won't even question it – I'm decidedly too old to raise children at one-hundred-seventy-one, and you're not quite old enough at twenty-two."

"I'm old enough to have it, I'm old enough to raise it."

He sighed. "Kit, you're barely more than a child still. Give it time – you'll be ready to raise a child. When you are, if I'm still around, we'll adopt…"

I stomped my foot – the childishness of the gesture was clear, but I didn't care. "I'm having this child, Erik Christian. I know you don't like it, but buckle your belt a bit tighter and deal with it." As his jaw dropped, I stomped off to the bedroom.


	49. NYC: Kitten Island

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – September, 2009**_

It was a full two hours before I heard his voice in the doorway. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…" I heard a fist pound on the doorframe. "I shouldn't have lost my temper."

I sat up, staring at him. "When did you lose your temper, exactly?"

"When I suggested doing something as irrational as killing such an innocent thing." He sighed. "Our child – we shouldn't get overexcited about what it _may_ look like, you're right." He sat down on the bed next to me. "It wasn't fair of me to react that way. I should be happy about this."

"If you're not, it's all right," I said quietly.

"No, I…I am," he said. "It's just…extremely sudden, Kitten. I didn't expect this for awhile yet."

"That's two of us."

He looked at me. "Are…are _you_ happy?"

I sighed, touching his arm. "Of course I am. It's just…kind of sudden. I really wasn't planning on being a mother just yet."

He leaned over and kissed me. "It's all right. I'll be right here with you."

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – May, 2010**_

I checked the clock impatiently, tapping my foot on the floor. "Where _is_ he?"

Almost immediately, Erik came into the room, cursing. "I should just _fire_ him…that bastard…" He spotted me, already dressed, and stopped mid-step. "_Mon Dieu_…Kit, you're beautiful."

"Oh, don't lie," I said, walking over and swatting him on the arm playfully. "I'm _enormous_. I'm so fat I could be the sixth borough." I laughed. "Kitten Island…wouldn't that be something?"

He kissed my forehead, straightening his tie. "Stop. You're not fat, you're just full of baby. And that'll change soon enough." He sighed. "We couldn't have conceived so it _wouldn't_ be due in May?"

"What's so wrong with May?"

"Aside from this nagging feeling that it's going to be born on _my_ birthday…and be another little me…" He shook his head. "Oh, well…shall we?"

I took his arm, thinking as we left the penthouse. "Darling, who was it you were cursing at?"

He punched the button on the lift and looked at me. "Oh…uh…Darius."

"Why?"

"He keeps trying to kill me – and half the crew."

I sighed. "Then have him arrested."

"I can't." He ran a hand through his hair. "We…uh…no one can prove it's him, not with certainty. It's more of a suspicion, really." We stepped into the lift, and the doors shut. "It could be him, but then again, it could be Toby and half the stage crew – it could be Sophia, for all I know. I just wish I could prove it was him for certain – it worries me, what with you and soon, our child…" He kissed my forehead, rubbing my stomach through my dress. "My family."

"It'll be all right," I said as we stepped out of the lift into the lobby. "We'll find out who it is."

Leaving the building, we climbed into the limousine and headed off to the gala banquet. As soon as we stepped inside, I knew it would be a night like no other – I immediately felt a cramp so strong I needed to lean against Erik for a moment. "Are you all right?" he asked, panicked.

"Fine, darling," I whispered. "Just a cramp. It's passed. Let's go mingle." He took me around the room, introducing me to influential people – my cramps didn't let up, and seemed to be coming quicker and quicker, and lasting longer and longer. After about an hour, I spotted a man standing in the corner and knew I had to get Erik to notice. "Darling, look," I said, gesturing. "Is that who I think it is?"

I watched him grin. "I didn't know Crawford would be here." He grabbed my hand and started dragging me across the room. "You _have_ to meet him – you haven't officially met yet, and the man was at our _wedding_, for God's sake." We reached him after a few minutes of dodging people, and he smiled as he caught sight of us. Erik introduced us, and he reached a hand out toward me.

As I went to shake it, I felt something cold against my skin under my dress. With a start, I realized my water had broken. "Oh, no…Erik…" He stared at me for a moment. "Love, we have to go."

"Why?" he whispered, as Crawford walked off. "I thought you idolized the man."

"It's not that." I tugged at his sleeve. "I just don't want to give birth on the buffet table."

As the words seemed to sink in, he turned an interesting shade of red. "Are you…you're not…?" I nodded, and before I could say another word, he was escorting me out of the room and into the limo, telling our driver to head for the nearest hospital. "You can't have my son anywhere but a hospital."

Just before the cramps started hitting badly, I stared at him. "Who said it was a boy? You didn't want to know, remember?"

"True." I clenched my teeth together to keep from screaming, but he saw it. "John, drive _through_ them if you have to! Just get us there and quickly!"

* * *

_**Erik**_

"Pacing isn't going to help, Mr. Muhlheim."

I stared at Sophia for a minute. It had been nice of her to rush down to the hospital – leaving her own newborn with her husband – but she didn't need to state the obvious. "Thank you, Sophia. I wasn't sure if it was or not." I shook my head, glancing toward the doors, knowing Meg was sitting with Kit and helping her. I could feel myself shaking – then I felt Sophia's hands on my shoulders, and the side of her head against my neck.

"It'll be all right. She'll be all right."

I put my hand over hers. "Yeah, I know she will. I just…" I sighed – a shaky thing I hadn't meant to let out. "I want to just rush in there and help. I can't _stand_ being out here, doing nothing."

"Well, that's your lot," she muttered.

I turned to her. "Is everything all right? I think you sound more despondent than I do."

She sank into a chair, head in her hands. "No…Pete's taking everything away from me. The house, most of the money…" She sniffled, and I saw tears. "O…our child…" As soon as the words left her mouth, she started sobbing.

I sat down, patting her back. "Sophia, don't. He can't take the baby away from you – you have…"

She shook her head. "I already lost that battle. I do nothing but work – I'm always at the theatre. How am I supposed to take care of a baby like that?"

"And you think I can't help with that?" She looked at me. "We'll cut down your hours, find someone to help you take care of your child. Sophia…why didn't you just ask me? Why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't want to burden you when I knew you were having a child, too, sir."

As I went to speak again, I heard footsteps near me. "Mr. Muhlheim?" I shot to my feet, nearly knocking the doctor over. "You're being paged." She was smiling, and led me into the room.

Kit was half-sitting in the bed, holding a tiny bundle of pink blankets. "Hi, darling," she said, spotting me.

"Hi." I pulled a chair next to her and sat. "Is that…?"

She nodded. "Your daughter."

I held my breath for a moment as the words hit me. "My son's a girl?"

She nodded again. "Yes, love. Would you like to see her?"

I could feel my heart pounding hard enough to explode. "Sure." Afraid though I was, I watched her pull the blankets back from the baby's face, and she tipped her up so I could see. My breath caught in my throat. "Kit, she…she's…" I felt tears in my eyes, and without even trying, I let them fall. "Oh, Kit…" I kissed her, then leaned down and softly touched a kiss to my daughter's forehead.

"Erik, you're crying," Kit whispered.

"I am." I looked at her, putting my arm about her. "She's so beautiful." I felt Meg's hand on my shoulder, and turned slightly to look at her. "Look, Meg. My daughter."

She nodded. "Congratulations, you two."

I looked back to Kit. She was grinning. "What?"

"And you were afraid you'd pass it on." She stroked the baby's right cheek – smooth and perfect. "See? I told you it was just paranoia."

I grinned as well. "I suppose it was." I stroked both their cheeks at once. "Does she have a name?"


	50. NYC: The Imperfect Fifth

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – February, 2015**_

"_Ruth-Ann Erika Muhlheim!_" Erik came tearing out of the bathroom, looking around. "Where is she?"

"In…oh, for God's sake, Erik, she's four. What'd she do now? Rearrange the bath soaps?"

He stared at me – I could have sworn smoke puffed from his nostrils. "Not. Funny."

"Well, what'd she…?"

"She flushed my watch." I doubled over laughing, being careful not to hit my stomach – I was fairly certain the baby wouldn't like it. "Oh, _so_ not in the mood, Kit!"

When I could look at him again, I spoke. "That cheap one that you never wear?"

There was a long pause from him. "I wear it," he whined, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

"When? When do you wear it?" I didn't wait for him to answer. "You only wear it when you wear ratty clothes, and considering you hardly ever wear those, I'd let it go." I motioned to his wrist. "Besides, you have the Rolex – stop whining. Is the toilet clogged?"

"No."

"Then I wouldn't worry about it." I went back to making dinner. "She's four. As long as she doesn't flush something important – and as long as she doesn't clog the damn thing – stop freaking out." I looked at him – he was standing, staring at me. "I didn't say you couldn't go scold her, just don't go nuclear. It's just a watch, after all, darling. She's got enough to deal with, her father being who he is – you scare her sometimes, you know."

"I…I do?" He looked ashamed. "I don't mean to."

"Then don't be so angry over a watch you didn't even wear." As he started off, I heard a small noise from Ruthie's bedroom – it grew after a moment. I picked up my head, trying to figure out what it was. Before I could, Erik turned to me, standing at the foot of the stairs, an indescribable look on his face.

"She's singing." He looked up the stairs. "And well, too." He grinned.

"No." Before I could even put down the bowl I was stirring, he was racing up the stairs. "Erik, no! _She's not a show pony, Erik Christian, she's your daughter!_" I heard Ruthie's door slam upstairs, and I sighed. "Damn it."

After dinner, Erik made me sit down and listen to Ruthie sing – the "Ave Maria," of all things. "Isn't she wonderful?" he asked me when she was done. He ruffled her hair. "She's going to be my little diva when she grows up."

I sighed. "I thought you told me you weren't going to force that on her."

"I'm not." He kissed her forehead. "But she's too good to waste the talent."

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – March 15, 2015**_

I grabbed the stereo remote and pushed play. After a moment, the speakers started blaring "Killer Queen" – I'd had it stuck in my head for two straight days. Luckily Erik was out at rehearsals – I think he'd gotten sick of hearing me hum it. I looked over toward the dining room as I sat down with my laundry – Ruthie was dancing with a feather boa while the song played. I laughed. I'd have to yell at Margery later for teaching her the dance.

As soon as I started singing along, the stereo died. I stared at it for a minute, wanting to curse…and then I heard someone playing the piano behind me. I turned and looked at Erik's piano – he was sitting on the bench, Toby by his side, hammering away at the keys. It took me a moment to figure out what he was playing – "Killer Queen." Toby started singing, and I watched Ruthie keep dancing. I couldn't help but grin – they were all so wacky.

When they were done, we all shared a laugh, and Erik looked at Toby and me. "Can you two run rehearsals? I need a quick nap." I nodded, noticing Toby doing the same. Erik picked Ruthie up and headed off up the stairs, singing. Toby offered me his arm, and I took it, laughing. We left the penthouse, taking the lift down to the lobby.

On the stage, rehearsals were going fine. Toby took his place and they continued – but after about half an hour, Darius stopped and turned to me. "Where's your husband?"

"That's irrelevant," I said. "You should …"

I silenced as Darius and Lily both pulled out pistols. A moment later, I heard a scream – then another, and another, and everyone started running toward me, cowering behind me. As Meg ran over, she grabbed me and dragged me toward the back of the crowd. I looked around – Darius and Lily were blocking the exits. As I spotted Perrie heading for Margery, Darius grabbed her arm, putting the gun to her head. "One chance – tell me where Muhlheim is."

She glanced at Margery, then at Darius, sputtering in French. "I…_je ne sais pas_…"

"Wrong answer." Before I knew what was happening, there was a loud bang, and Perrie fell. I saw blood…heard Margery's scream…saw Meg holding her back… "Who's next?!" He waved the pistol in the air, firing once – there were more screams. "Where's Kit? Come on up, don't be shy!" I took a deep breath, preparing to step forward – out from behind Eliot and Qusanna – knowing it might result in my death. But before I could do anything, I heard running footsteps and looked toward their source – the lobby exit. Erik appeared, and Darius turned, training the gun on him. "Ah, Erik! I've been expecting you!"

"Spare me the monologue," Erik growled. He looked ready to say something else, but as he opened his mouth, a second pair of footsteps came up behind him. He turned slightly, and I looked as well.

It was Ruthie. "Papa?"

Almost in slow motion, I saw Erik's eyes go wide as he turned back to Darius – Darius turned the pistol on Ruthie. Erik ran over and shoved her back. I felt Meg's arm on mine – shaking it off, I ran out, only to be held back by Eliot. "No! Erik, take her and run!" I saw his eyes widen further as Darius turned the pistol on me. As soon as he did, I heard two cries – Toby was running toward me, and Sean had tackled Lily, sending her pistol flying across the stage.

For a moment, Darius looked confused. He turned from Sean to Toby to me to Erik to Ruthie, seeming unsure of which to fire on. When his back was turned for a moment, I saw Erik start running for him. I screamed, and with Darius still turning, I closed my eyes.

The gun fired.


	51. NYC: Diminished Fifth

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – March 15, 2015**_

I felt cold. Numb. I opened my eyes slowly and looked around. Erik had tackled Darius, but looked surprised – and I realized Darius wasn't breathing. I looked to Ruthie – she seemed shocked. Glancing over to Sean, he seemed shocked as well. I looked over at Toby.

There was blood on his shirt. "Damn," he muttered. His knees shook for a moment, then collapsed – he fell onto his back on the stage as about five people jumped toward him. Eliot got to him first, cradling Toby in his arms.

"Toby! Toby, say something!" He gurgled for a moment as Erik knelt by them.

I couldn't move. I watched Erik cradle Toby's head, and Toby started coughing – blood dripped out the side of his mouth. "No, Toby, no," Erik moaned. "No…" I could hear sirens outside – I assumed Sophia had called for help. I saw Eliot crying, Erik stroking Toby's hair. "Tobias, it…it'll be… _n'allez pas, mon ami_…"

Before my eyes, before I knew what was happening, Toby blinked – his chest heaved – and then nothing. Not another movement, another sound – nothing. I saw Erik's back heave – he leaned down and whispered something in French, then closed Toby's eyes. He stood, leaving Eliot holding Toby.

As he stood, several medics rushed onto the stage, followed by police. I couldn't hear anything – my eyes were fixed on Toby, his eyes shut, cradled in Eliot's arms, a red stain on his shirt. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned – it was Erik. His mouth was moving, but I couldn't hear him. My heart was pounding in my ears. I looked away from Erik, back to Toby, but when I did, Erik grabbed my chin and forced me to look at him – his mouth still moving, the words still inaudible over the throbbing in my ears. I tried to look away again, and he shook me – his voice finally broke through, but he sounded distant.

"Kit?" I looked at him. "Are you all right?" I shook my head, turning to look at Toby again. "Kit, we have to…" As I stared at Toby, Erik's voice faded away again. I watched the medics pull Eliot away and work on Toby, but of course there was nothing they could do.

I felt another hand on my arm – Sophia. She led me toward the stage door and out into the apartment lobby. I was vaguely aware of being led into the lift, Ruthie hanging on to my free hand. After a few moments, I looked around – Erik wasn't with us. Looking at Sophia, I heard soft noises as we ascended in the lift. "Sophia, where…where's Erik?"

"He had to stay. The cops wanted to talk with him." She motioned toward Ruthie. "She's shaking, Kit. Maybe you should calm her down."

I looked down – she was trembling fiercely. Without a word, I picked her up and held her tightly. When we were back in the penthouse, I put her on the sofa and turned the TV on – she seemed to forget about what had just occurred and watched with a grin on her face.

I couldn't forget as easily. I wandered around for a bit, trying to do something to keep my mind off what had just happened, but I couldn't. Leaning against the counter in the kitchen, I let myself cry – I didn't stop when I felt Erik's arms about my waist, his head on my shoulder, his chest heaving as he cried, too.


	52. NYC: What Child Is This?

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – July 1, 2015**_

_**Erik**_

"You know, I remember you being a lot more nervous the last time." I stared at Sophia – she was grinning.

"Who said I'm not nervous now?"

"Oh, it's just when Ruthie was born, I remember you pacing up and down the room." She ruffled Ruthie's hair softly – she had fallen asleep hours ago. "D'you think she's excited?"

"I wouldn't be surprised." As I rose from my chair to stretch, I spotted the doctor coming toward me. "Doctor, what…?"

She was pale – all the blood looked drained from her face. "I…I've never seen anything…" She paused, and shook her head. "You…you can go in, if you want…" Without another word, she walked away.

I stared at Sophia. "What…?" Without finishing – it had already occurred to me why the doctor was so flustered – I sped to Kit's room.

"Mr. Muhlheim…!"

"Stay there!" I opened Kit's door and peeked in – she was groggy, but smiling at me. Meg's face looked just like the doctor's. "Kitten, can I…?"

Meg dragged me inside and shut the door. "What did I tell you?" she hissed. "What did I tell you, huh?!"

I felt the blood draining from my own face. I pulled a chair over to Kit's bedside and touched her shoulder gently – she was holding a tiny bundle of blue blankets. "Kitten? Is it…?"

She nodded – I saw tears in her eyes. "Do you want to see him?"

I could feel my entire face go numb. My son – my son was… Apprehensively, I nodded, and she pulled the blankets back from his face. I felt my breath catch in my throat. "Oh, God…"

His right cheek looked burned, and his right eye was wider than the left. "Erik," Kit whispered. "Are you all right?"

I felt tears falling from my eyes, and I made no effort to check them. "No…no, Kit…what did we do?" I looked at her. "What did we do?"

She shook her head. "Stop that. He's your son – _our_ son – and I don't _care_ how he looks. You _know_ that."

I stared at her for a moment. Of course I knew – she had fallen in love with me, after all, and I'd looked much worse than that. I took a deep breath. "Of course, Kitten. Does he…what's his name?"

"I know you'll hate it, but remember you told me I could name him."

"Just tell me."

She breathed deeply. "Gregory Raoul."

I shot to my feet, knocking the chair over. "No!" The baby started to cry – the noise had probably frightened him. "No…it's not official yet, is it? We have to change it! I can't let…"

"Oh, _shut up_!" she hissed at me. I silenced – the baby was still crying. "You scared him. And that's his name, like it or don't."

"But my _brother_…and my _father_…"

I knew she was furious with me when her nostrils flared. "I named him after _my_ brother, Erik. _My_ brother – Gregory Raoul Chagny. Your family never even crossed my mind, so stop being _une chienne pleurnichant_ for two minutes!"

There was silence for a moment. I picked up the chair and sat down again. "You've an amazing memory, my love."

She grinned. "Don't change the subject, you jerk." She held Gregory out to me. "Would you like to hold your son?"

I took the small baby from her, cradling him in my arms. His tiny hand was reaching about, and I held out my finger – his hand wrapped around it, and I smiled. Quietly, I kissed his forehead. "_Mon fils_."


	53. NYC: A Mere Mortal

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – September 4, 2026**_

I heard the door slam shut, and I peeked out of the kitchen. "Don't drop your bag on the floor!"

"Yes, Mom," Ruthie called back.

"Where's your brother?" I looked over as Ruthie – her arms crossed – appeared in the doorway. "Where's Greg?"

"Well, I peeked in on rehearsals, and heard cackling in the rafters, so…"

I nodded. "Go do your homework, sweetie." She walked off, and I picked up the phone and dialed down to Sophia. "Say, my son wouldn't happen to be down there menacing his poor father, would he?"

I could almost hear her roll her eyes. "Sadly, yes, he is."

I sighed. "Our very own Baby Phantom."

In the background, I heard someone yelling, and another person crying. "Mrs. Muhlheim, your boys are on the way upstairs."

"Thank you, Sophia." I hung up. I knew asking her to tell Erik not to yell at Greg wouldn't do a bit of good – by the time she'd hung up and started to tell him, they would already be in the lift and on their way upstairs.

It felt only a moment later, but I knew it was longer – the door opened, and I heard Erik's voice. "…Completely irresponsible, do you realize that? Someone could have been seriously hurt!"

I rushed into the living room. "What on Earth is all the shouting for?"

Erik turned to me. "He cut down a row of lights and almost hit about ten people. I have six dancers, two altos, a baritone, and a bass all threatening to quit. I can't have this right now – it's bad enough all the dancers are brand new, but to have _him_ doing this?" He pushed Greg toward me. "You deal with him – I'm frankly tired of doing it." Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the penthouse, slamming the door behind him.

I sat Greg down on the sofa – he was crying softly. "Sweetheart, what did you do?" I looked at him – he insisted on dressing like Erik, in stylish clothes – but added a mask to hide his face. I pulled the mask gently from his face, handing him a tissue. "Dry your tears, sweetie – tell Mommy what you did."

He sniffled for a moment, then looked at me. "I…I was just trying to be like P…Papa…"

"Oh, baby." I pulled him into a hug. "You can't do things like that. It's fine when you walk around and laugh, it's fine when you jump out and scare someone, but you can't do dangerous things like that. Your papa only did things like that when he had to, and he didn't like doing it."

"But it's…"

"No…no additions." I sighed. "Oh, Gregory, what are we going to do with you?" I picked up the phone and dialed Sophia again. "Hey, Sophia…?"

Before I could say a word, I heard her in the background. "Jason Alexander Montpelier! Get your lazy ass up and _do something useful_!" Then her voice came clearer. "Sorry, Mrs. Muhlheim – my good-for-nothing son doesn't wanna work for his pay."

"Oh, Sophia," I said, chuckling. "What are we going to do with our boys?"

"Is selling children illegal?"

I laughed. "Probably. Sounds illegal, doesn't it?" Before I could say anything else, I heard a commotion in the background, and Erik's voice screaming something. "Sophia? What's going on?" No answer. "Sophia? _Sophia!_ What's going on?"

The voice that answered me wasn't Sophia. "Kitten? Stay there." I was about to protest, but the line went dead – he'd hung up on me. I sighed – typical Erik.

About a half-hour later, the door opened – it was Erik. "What's going on?"

He took me by the shoulders. "Meg collapsed onstage…" His voice faltered.

I stood staring at him for a moment. Then I ran to the bottom of the stairs. "Ruth! Watch your brother!" Dodging Erik, I ran for the door – I ran to the end of the hall and threw open the door for the stairs, thundering down them. I heard Erik behind me – not close, but not far, either.

"Kit! Kit, stop!" But I didn't. I ran down to Meg's floor and exited the stairwell, heading for Meg's room – there was a crowd around the doorway. I pushed my way through – Margery was in an armchair, sobbing. Sean was patting her back – Freya holding her hand. "Margie?" She looked up at me, and Freya vacated her chair so I could sit. "Margie, what…?"

She shook her head. "She never…she didn't…oh, God…" She took a deep, shaky breath. "Mom had a heart attack. She…oh, God…"

I held up my hand. I wouldn't make her finish – I already knew. I tried to choke the tears back, but failed. "M…Meg…" I went to stand, and my knees shook fiercely – I fell over into Erik's arms. Leaning my head against his chest, I sobbed, feeling his chest heaving as well.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – September 7, 2026**_

_**Erik**_

"She would have hated us for crying, you know." I looked at Kit – she was still sniffling. "She'd be yelling at you right now if she saw you." She nodded.

"She'd yell at me more for burying her in New York instead of in Paris." She put her arms about my neck, and I held her tightly. "Oh, God…Erik, why did she…?"

"Kit, she was a hundred and seventy-two." I tipped her head up to look at me. "You know, not that this will make you feel any better, but I actually saw her smile as she collapsed. I think she hoped – or maybe she knew – that she'd go before me, younger or not."

"Why?"

"The woman did put up with a ton of my bullshit for the better part of her life." I kissed her forehead. "Do stop crying – she's happy. She's free now." Against my will, another tear fell from my eye. I didn't wipe it away. I watched Kit take the kids upstairs, then started over to the sofa. I stopped halfway there as I spotted someone next to it. "No," I whispered. "I'm hallucinating. It's the sleep deprivation. You can't be here."

"Of course not," Antoinette said. "Of course you're hallucinating. You're feeling guilty for letting Marguerite die – why else would you be daydreaming about me?"

"You look good, Annie."

"I'd better." She was quiet for a moment. "She wasn't yours, Erik. You know that."

"I do."

"Then why do you feel guilty? I asked her to care for _you_, not the other way around."

"I felt it went both ways. She cared for me, I cared for her…"

"You were the one that needed help, not her."

I sighed. "Annie, why…why do I feel like this? This weight in my chest…?"

"Because you miss me, you miss Meg…come on, Erik, what do you think? You think you're going to live forever? Meg's dying reminded you that now you will, too. That's why you feel that way." She grinned. "You know, I thought you'd be with me much sooner than this. More than a century…I've been waiting."

"You'll have to wait still. I'm married now."

"Until death do you part." She grinned wider. "Then you're all mine, Erik Christian. Don't forget that."

"Annie? How…" I gulped. "How much longer do I have?"

She shook her head. "How would I know? I'm just a figment of your imagination." With a smile, she was gone. I heard Kit's footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Erik?" I looked over at her. "Who were you talking to?"

I sighed. "No one, Kitten."


	54. NYC: Erik's Heartbeat

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA**__** – July 13, 2028**_

"I _hate_ Thursday night rehearsals! Once more, from the top!" Walking across the stage, Erik's voice was still unmistakable. I carried his coffee over to him. "Oh, what would I do without you?"

"Well…" He silenced me with a kiss. "That's cheating."

"Yes, it is." He grinned.

I looked over toward Ruthie – the new diva of the theatre at only eighteen. She was necking with Jason – Sophia's son. "Ruth-Ann!" They parted quickly. "What on…?"

"You and Papa were…"

"That's no excuse!" Erik yelled. "We've been married for nineteen years! Stop necking and get back to rehearsing."

I grinned and walked away, listening to Ruthie sing. As I reached the door, she stopped. "Papa? Are you all right?" I turned – Erik had a hand to his chest, a strange look on his face.

"_Ah, merde_," he said. The coffee cup fell from his hand, its contents splashing onto the stage.

Erik followed it, collapsing on his face.

"_Erik!_" I flew to him, rolling him onto his side. Sean was already on his cell phone, calling for help. "Erik! Erik, can you hear me?" He gurgled, his fingers groping at his shirt. "Oh, God in Heaven…" I unbuttoned his shirt, hearing sirens in the distance. "Erik, you're going to be fine. Do you hear me? You're going to be all right."

A few moments passed – then I saw medics rush onto the stage. I moved out of their way as they worked on Erik, putting him on a stretcher. "Mrs. Muhlheim? We're going to take him to…"

Very softly, from the stretcher, I heard Erik mumble something. I walked over and put my ear close to his mouth. "Say that again, darling."

"I'm not…going…to a goddamn hospital," he wheezed. "Take me upstairs."

"Erik…"

His face contorted, and for a moment I thought he was in massive pain. "_Take me upstairs, goddamn it!_"

I turned to the medics. "Uh…you heard him."

"But Mrs. Muhlheim, he's…"

"Look, if the man wants to go to his own bed, take him there." With a shrug, the medics wheeled Erik off the stage and into the apartment lobby – I followed not far behind them. They loaded him into the lift and went up – I waited, knowing I wouldn't fit. When I caught up with them at the penthouse, I helped them get Erik up the stairs and into bed.

As they were leaving, one of them pulled me aside. "Look, we're going to send a doctor by, all right? He's really not well and he really needs to be looked at." I nodded and showed them out, then returned to Erik's side.

"You should…" He grimaced. "Go run the rehearsal."

"I think we'll cancel them for tonight," I said.

He stared at me, frowning. "I mean it. Go run rehearsals."

"I'm not leaving your side."

"_Damn it, Christine!_"

"You can yell at me all you like, I'm not leaving you alone." Though I had tears in my eyes, and he'd no doubt seen them by now, I refused to let them fall. I had to stay strong.

About an hour passed, and I heard Sophia coming down toward the bedroom. "Mrs. Muhlheim? The doctor's here." I nodded, and Erik looked ready to hit me.

"I'm fine, damn it. Why won't you people listen to me?"

"Yes, Erik, because you always clutch your chest and collapse onto your face. You do it every day." He silenced and allowed the doctor to poke and prod him. When he was done, I followed the doctor downstairs.

"Mrs. Muhlheim, I need to be honest with you right now." I nodded. "He's…well, I don't know how to say this, but…he's not well."

"I already know that. Why don't you tell me something new?"

He sighed. "All right, I'll be blunt. It was a heart attack. How…how old is he?"

I sighed. "A hundred and ninety."

The doctor whistled. "I should have known that. But honestly…given his age, he may not survive the night. Do you want to tell him or should I?"

I felt my knees weakening, but I looked at the doctor and shook my head. "I'll do it." I already knew Erik wouldn't believe it coming from the doctor – he might just believe it from me.

I returned to the bedroom, knowing I had to be pale. "Kit," Erik said, "what's going on? What does that hack think?"

I sat down, taking his hand. "Erik, you…" I sighed. "It was a heart attack. You've had a heart attack."

He stared at me for a moment. "So?" He grimaced, his hand instinctively going to his chest. "What's the problem? I'll be fine."

I felt tears welling up again, but knew I couldn't let them fall. "No, darling…you…you won't."

There was silence for a moment – then he smiled at me. Weakly, but still a smile. "And you expected what? I'm a hundred and ninety years old, Kit. How much more did you want out of me?"

"You…you…"

"I already knew." He sighed. "Meg went easy – it was immediate for her. But no…God wants me in agony." He sighed. "I won't be brave and say it doesn't hurt – I'm man enough to admit this hurts like hell."

"You know…" I breathed deeply. "You could make it, if you wanted to…"

He looked me squarely in the eyes. "I'm one hundred and ninety years old, Kit. And that is more than my allotted time on this Earth, don't you agree?" He smiled bitterly. "I was well past the prime of my life when Étienne and Guillaume were born. I was forty-eight when they were born, Kit. Forty-eight years I'd spent on this Earth when Christine gave birth to her darling little twin boys." He looked back up at the ceiling. "I will not say that I envied Raoul. Jealousy was a petty thing I never indulged in. In the end, the best man won the heart of Christine Daaé. It just happened to be him." A single tear traced a winding course down Erik's cheek. He did not reach up to wipe it away. "I loved her, Kit. With every breath in my body, with all the strength I possessed, I did everything in my power to win her heart. I failed dismally." Another tear. Again, he did not reach up to wipe it away. "She rejected me as though I meant nothing to her, as though everything I did, she had been entitled to in the first place. She was greedy, Kit. I am not trying to turn you against her, but she was a greedy young girl. Barely sixteen, and faced with a level of fame even Carlotta could never have dreamed of. I am almost sorry that I burned the Opera to the ground. Almost, but not quite." There was a bitter smile frozen on his face. "Christine broke my heart that night. I didn't think anyone was ever capable of repairing it. But I was, yet again, wrong." The bitterness disappeared from him – he suddenly looked seraphic. "I was cursed with immortality, but it was for a reason. It was so that I might meet the one that could repair my heart. So that I might meet the one whose heart I could win, and who would return the affection I gave." His eyes turned to me. "You. My true diva. The only girl truly worthy of my love."

"But…" I faltered. "What about Antoinette?"

"She had long since made it clear that I was not the one she wanted. I was a plaything to her, nothing more." He put his hand over mine. "My Angel," he whispered, staring straight into my eyes. "You, Kit, are truly my Angel of Music."

My restraint broke. Screw the fact that the kids were just outside the room, sitting with Margery; there was no stopping the flow of tears that burst forth from me. My sobs were heart-wrenching, Margery later told me – they could hear me several floors down. "Erik!" I couldn't stand it. I collapsed onto him, my head against his chest, my tears falling onto his shirt. "Oh, God, don't leave me! Don't leave me!"

"It's not as though I want to," he said softly, stroking my hair gently. "Oh, Kit, don't cry. You have to be strong for me. Ruthie and Gregory are depending on you."

"I can't do this, Erik," I moaned. "I can't live without you."

"Yes, you can," he said, an angry tone in his voice. "I don't want to hear that again. I don't want to hear you say that again and I thought I made that very clear eighteen years ago."

I nodded as best I could without getting up. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry. I won't say it again."

"That's my girl. I need you to be strong for me as well."

I sat up and looked at him. "Why? Why do you need me to be strong for you?"

He looked hurt. "Do you think this is what I want?"

"I thought you'd waited for a century for this…"

"Not for _this_, Kit!" He looked at me, tears in his eyes again. "I waited for death for a century before I met you. But I met you when you were nine. For the past thirty-two years, I've tried to deny Death this prize."

"What prize?"

"The Phantom." It was chilling to hear him say it. "Kit, I said that I was _ready_ to die, that I was _prepared_ to die. Never once in the last thirty-two years has anyone heard me say that I _wanted_ to die." He smiled, a bittersweet one this time. "I'm ready to go, Kit, but I don't want to. Believe me, I'd much rather stay here with you, your immortal Phantom."

I could tell that my eyes still glistened with tears, as did his. "But I don't want that immortal Phantom. I fell in love with you for who you are, but to me you were never the Phantom. You were Erik. You were human, someone who just wanted the things the rest of us had; love, affection…that's all you really ever needed."

He smiled. "And this is why you are the girl that captured my heart for eternity. You understood me, Kit. Out of everyone who has ever met me, you are the only one that truly understands me."

From downstairs, I heard the distant chime of midnight – it only seemed like an hour ago that he'd collapsed, but I knew better now. "July fourteenth."

He sighed. "If I'd know yesterday would have been the last sunrise for me…"

"Oh, stop it. You'll…" He stared at me. "What?"

"I think you should bring the kids in."

With a sinking feeling, I called down to Margery and had her bring the kids upstairs. When they saw their father lying in the bed, a mess of bed sheets and tubes, tears started to fall from their eyes. "Papa," Gregory whispered. With an unsteady hand, he removed his mask. Ruthie stayed stoically silent. "Papa, what's wrong?"

Erik motioned them closer. "Ah, Gregory," he said softly, with only a hint of feebleness in his voice. "Why don't you tell me, son? Surely you must know by now?" Gregory shook his head, at which Erik sighed. "Ruthie," he said, staring now at her. She seemed startled for a moment. "Why don't you tell your brother what is happening?"

She took a shaky breath. "You had a heart attack, didn't you?" Erik nodded. "But…you're gonna be all right…right?"

He shook his head. "No, sweetheart, I'm not." He grabbed his chest again, this time struggling for breath for a moment. "Oh, _Mon Dieu_…cruelty now? I thought the cruelty was done a long time ago." He chuckled bitterly. "But no. You enjoy my pain, don't you, you son of a bitch?!"

"Erik…"

"It won't be long, Kitten. I want him to know I'm not going without a fight."

"I think he knows, darling."

Erik sighed quietly. I could see him weakening fast, and I suddenly realized that he was not long for this world. "I don't want to go."

"Then don't."

He looked at me again. "Christine, you have made me very happy. You have made me feel happier than I ever dreamed possible. I have given you all of the love that I possess, and I do not believe that I have shown you that as much as I could have." He raised a feeble hand and brushed my cheek with it, then did the same with his other hand, brushing it against Ruthie's cheek, then Gregory's. "_Mes enfants_…oh, you're both so…" He gasped, clutching his chest again – it was longer this time, and I worried that this was the end. But he recovered – but not much. "I…oh, _mes enfants_, I love you both." There was a whispered "I love you" from each of them, and then he looked at me. "I love you, Christine." He looked up at me. "Thank you for…"

I quieted him. "No, hush. Don't thank me for death. It will just make me cry."

"No, I thank you for my life. I just wish I could stay with you to make you happy."

I brushed a tear off of his cheek. "You _have_ made me happy."

"I love you, Christine."

I leaned down and kissed his lips softly. "I love you too, Erik."

"Goodbye." And with that last whispered word, I watched the life drain from his body. I couldn't stem the flow of tears from my eyes as I lay my head on his now-still chest and cried. I heard my children crying – Margery had come in to comfort them, but I heard her crying as well. I had never dreamt that it would be like this – calm and peaceful, in his own bed. I had always imagined it would be brutal, fighting till the last. But it was no matter – it could not be helped now.

Erik Christian Muhlheim, the Phantom of the Opera, was dead.


	55. Immortal Phantom

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and minor adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer – same as the other parts.

* * *

_**Paris, France**__** – July 28, 2028**_

His one last request was to be buried in France. He did not care about the exact location, so I took it upon myself to make absolutely certain that he would be buried next to me. Even though he was not a blood relative, I knew he would have been happy at where he was buried.

We lay Erik to rest in the de Chagny tomb…right between where Christine Daaé lay and where I would be.

The funeral was televised across the globe – it was historic, the death of the Phantom. There were famous people from all over the world that had come to pay their respects to Erik. I was overwhelmed – there must have been a thousand people or more there. Singers, actors, writers… It was amazing. Only a select few of them had known him, really, but that was of no consequence. There were many celebrities that I had met with Erik, of course, and at my side were a few of them, comforting me. Most noticeably were Sarah Brightman, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and, right next to me with his hand on my shoulder, Michael Crawford. It was tormenting me, the thought of Erik dead…I stared at the casket, as though hoping Erik would emerge from behind me and surprise me to happiness.

But nothing came. Erik did not appear. I stared at the casket – the lid was closed, and I knew Erik was resting peacefully inside. In that instant, it occurred to me: he was truly gone. He was asleep, and he would never wake from his dream. I could only hope that wherever he was, it was peaceful, and he had finally found all the love he deserved from Antoinette Giry and Christine Daaé.

I looked at my children. How could this have happened to them? To have had their father taken away at such a time in their lives must have been unbearable. I watched as Gregory clung to Ruthie, crying into her shoulder. Having lost my family quite early in my life had affected me – I felt very fortunate that my children had not had to endure that pain. They at least had had their father around for quite some time before his death.

The priest stepped up next to the casket, ready to begin his speech. Ruthie and Gregory moved closer to me, now both crying. I watched as the priest, who had never known Erik, began to speak about him, lying through his teeth. And here I had always thought men of the clergy were honest.

The priest told of Erik's tortured early life, growing up a poor boy in Philadelphia…and I suddenly realized that he was telling the life Erik had created for himself when he came to America. I was sickened. No priest should have spoken these words at the funeral of the immortal Phantom of the Opera – it was disrespectful to his memory. Everyone was looking at each other, questioning without speaking what this man was saying. Was this man being buried the Phantom…or was he just some psychotic nutcase _claiming_ to be the Phantom? I had sworn that I would make no eulogy, but decided then and there that I would. I had to – it was my duty as his wife.

When the priest had finished, he stepped aside to allow anyone who wished to speak to do so. First Margery spoke…then J. Pierre, who had come down to pay his final respects…then Sophia and Jason…Freya and Kerstin…Bonnie, Alyson, Morgan, Raven and Gloria sang a farewell song they had written…then Andrew Lloyd Webber, Sarah Brightman, and Michael Crawford spoke, though they had scarcely known him… It seemed the entire world wanted to say farewell to the Phantom.

I was surprised – when Michael had finished his small farewell, Ruthie and Gregory made their way to the small podium near Erik's coffin. Their faces were tear-stained, and Ruthie's lip was trembling, but when she spoke, her voice was steady.

"I may be only eighteen, and consequently very young to judge anything, but I feel it necessary now. My father is, was, and will always be remembered as the Phantom of the Opera. Though many of you among us do not believe this, I have found sufficient proof in my family records to bolster his claim. My mother's ancestor, Étienne Chagny, practiced the Black Arts, and unwittingly placed a curse on my father – he would not be able to die until he had found true happiness with a woman. This was understood to mean marriage, acting upon the social normalities of the time period. But I find that none of this is important, even though without it I would not be standing before you." She paused and drew a breath. "I feel it necessary to call my father a coward."

There was a near riot at these words. My eyes grew wide, and I sent her my motherly look – the signal to stop being so childish. After all, her father was dead – did she need to add insult to injury by calling her father such names?

She was unaffected by the uproar. "My father never admitted who he truly was until my mother realized it and called his bluff. My father was not proud of his immortality, something many people would have given anything to have. Instead, he hid his true self from the world." She paused as a tear ran down her cheek. "But as much as I feel my father was cowardly, I am proud to have been his daughter. I am one product of many years of happiness between my parents. Many of my friends have parents that are divorced, and I am thankful that that has never been the case with my parents. To have my father taken from me is unbearable, though I am at an age where I am able to cope in kind." She stopped speaking, and went over to Erik's casket, where her voice could still be picked up by the microphone. "I'm sorry, Papa," I heard her whisper. "I love you."

Gregory now stepped behind the podium and nearly disappeared – he was tiny for thirteen. He opened his mouth a couple of times, but nothing came out. Then he shook his head and ran to me, crying. I heard sad murmurs in the audience – they were deeply affected by this thirteen-year-old who was so choked up he could not even say farewell to his father. It was very heart-wrenching.

I hugged him, then rose from my seat and brought him and Ruthie up to the podium with me – she had followed her brother. I stepped up to the microphone and looked out into the sea of faces. "My daughter," I began, "does not speak for her entire family." I touched her cheek with my free hand. "While she does make a good point, I must disagree, having known Erik since I was the same age as my son. And I must say that he was one of the bravest men I have ever known.

"When he came to America, he hid his identity because he was not sure of how people would react to him. He had met much opposition in Paris, and was consequently relegated to the Opera cellars again. When I was the same age as my daughter, I realized that I was indeed in love with this man, this tortured soul who now lays here, his torture at an end." I paused for a moment – the last few words had caught in my throat. "Many people here would have you believe that he was born in a small, poor family in western Pennsylvania, and lived for a time in Philadelphia, but this is untrue. He was born in Rouen, in France, a disfigured child who was given a mask to wear before anything else. He was the victim of cruel torture, locked in cages for people to gawk at. It was a cruel life, and in his place, many would have curled up and died. He was rescued from this life by one caring young girl, and brought to live in the Opera Populaire. He fell in love with a young dancer, and trained her to sing, but she rejected him for a handsome young nobleman." I paused. "This was the beginning of my family, and subsequently the curse upon poor Erik came of it. It does not make me proud to be a product of the union of Christine Daaé and Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, but it is quite true that we cannot choose those we are related to by blood. I was to fulfill this prophecy and bring Erik happiness – and with it, the promise of death.

"Erik and I were married in 2009, and we enjoyed 19 years of happiness. I wish it could have been much more, but there is nothing to be done about it now." I started crying. "It was not easy for him to leave this world, though it had been cruel to him. He had found actual happiness in this world, and to leave that was unbearable for him. For us, it is pain we will live with for the rest of our lives. He has been taken from us after one hundred ninety years of life, and while many would say that that was a generous amount, he was by no means an old man. It takes more than age to be an old man." I smiled through my tears, looking at my children next to me. "My children are blessed to have his blood in their veins. Without him, they would not exist. Having children was very meaningful to him – it made him human." I paused. "He may have been the Phantom of the Opera, but he was just as the rest of us are: human, nothing more. And at the end, he had to accept that inevitable fact – all humans have to die one day." My lip began to tremble. "We lay him to rest here, in the de Chagny tomb, though he is not a blood relation to anyone inside it. It will be my final resting place, and it is the final resting place of Christine Daaé as well. We will lay him here, between both the girls he loved – the one that tamed him, and the one that got away."

From out of nowhere, a letter floated down to my feet. I stared at it for a moment, then took the letter from Ruthie, who had picked it up off the ground. The seal on the back was red wax, imprinted with a skull – _Erik's seal_. But Erik lay here…dead…what could this possibly be? It took all the self-control I had to put the letter in my pocket and let the pallbearers lift Erik's casket into the tomb, shutting the doors with that same sound I remembered from my childhood. After twenty-eight years together, nineteen of which I'd spent married to him, I left my Phantom behind for the last time. I put my arms around my children and left the cemetery with Margery, Michael, Sarah, and Andrew, the band's final song ringing in my ears.

It was The Music of the Night.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA – September 29, 2028**_

Two months later, I would open the letter. My curiosity knew no bounds. I had to read it – and once I had, I regretted my decision.

_My beautiful Christine Erika Daaé-Chagny Muhlheim,_

_I know this will shock and surprise you, but don't be so sure that I am gone forever. After all, Étienne never said I _had_ to die, did he? Don't be so certain that I haven't found a way to cheat death. I swore he would never claim me…I'm not mortal, after all._

_Don't argue with that. Just because I'm human doesn't mean I'm mortal._

_You have made me a happy man, and to do this to you and our children seems wrong, but you can't have me forever. You know that. Eventually you would die and leave me. So I'm sorry to do this to you, but I have no choice._

_Did I love you? The honest answer would be "with all my heart." Was I happy with you? Of course I was, my girl. You did everything right; you left nothing in Étienne's prophecy to chance. It's just that the world no longer needs a Phantom. My glory days are over – no one is frightened of me any longer. I've become somewhat of a novelty, and there is nothing that will change that._

_Or perhaps there is… You shall never know, my girl. I am sorry. Please don't cry; you must trust in me. I may not be gone forever._

_In fact, I may be closer than you think, Christine._

_I remain forevermore, your beloved Erik Christian Muhlheim…O.G._

I began to cry, though he had told me not to. It couldn't be possible. There was no way a mortal man could cheat Death out of a prize that good – the Phantom. He was mortal. He was dead. Nothing more made sense.

"_I'm closer than you think, Christine Muhlheim…"_

A voice in the darkness…could it be possible…?

"_I'm here…the Phantom of the Opera…!"_


End file.
